Beyond Nocturne Ch. 05

"DEATH AND MIRACLES"

EDITED BY:

Miriam Belle

CREATIVE CONSULTANT:

Simply_Cyn

AUTHORS NOTE:

"It would really help if you read the previous chapters before reading this one for the sake of clarity."

***

Michael slowly opened his eyes to an unfocused world.

His head ached under a dull, forceful throb. He sat up, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands, working the blur out of his field of vision. It was morning, he knew that much as the bright yellow warmth of the sun flooded his bedroom and illuminated everything to a glow. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and then all of sudden looked down.

He remembered the gashes on his chest and stomach. That thing in the alley had ripped into him the night before, cutting deep and almost pulling his guts out. As he ran his fingers over his torso, he saw that the gashes were gone as though part of a bad dream. Still, looking below his navel he saw the stitches there, sewn uselessly and without a purpose into his unbroken skin.

"What the fuck?" he whispered, and then he remembered. He turned quickly, calling out, "Lydia?"

Not bothering with clothes or giving the slightest thought about who might see him through a window, he walked naked through his apartment, looking for his mysterious rescuer. She was nowhere to be seen, not a single sign of her ever even having being there save for the stitches and the miraculous healing of his wounds. Michael sat down on his couch, the sunlight warming the back of neck and shoulders. It was after nine-thirty in the morning, and he was late for work.

Rushing to get showered and dressed, his mind was fixated on Lydia. He could remember now that she had somehow brought him home from the alley, that she had entered his apartment with apparently the greatest of ease. He also remembered that she had somehow healed him.

He remembered her silky skin against him, the feeling of her breasts pressed to him and the strange yet undeniable connection they had formed. As his thoughts cleared, he could see images, memories that were not his own. Flashes of a life he had never been a part of, the feelings attached to them disjointed and frantic. Lydia had passed her feelings of fear and anger to him, her bitterness at the past. But most of all, he felt her loneliness, the emptiness inside her.

Michael stood up and made his way to the bathroom.

"What the hell happened?" he asked his reflection in the mirror as he combed his hair and put on his deodorant.

As he grabbed his gun and holster, which someone had conveniently put on the nightstand, he was jolted again by a sudden remembrance.

"Rossetti," he whispered. Rossetti was supposed to meet him back at the alley that night. And if had he went back there last night, with that thing still in the alley...

Michael grabbed his leather jacket, forsaking his blazer and tie, running out the door.

***

"What was it?" Maricel asked.

Lydia shook her head, "I'm not sure yet."

Maricel frowned. "Yes you are. I can feel it."

Lydia paused her hurried morning routine in the middle of the room as she put her day suit on. Her fingers tightened slightly in frustration around the fabric of her blouse as she buttoned it up. "I told you," she glared at Maricel, "I don't know."

"Whatever it was," she said, "It hates you."

"I got that impression."

"But it loves you too," Maricel sat down at Lydia's desk. Her eyes looked tired, her face as pale as her blonde hair. She looked at Lydia and said, "It loved the man you were talking with too."

"Detective Wolverton," she corrected, "And as far as I am concerned, it could have easily been an undead or some fucked up lycanthrope looking for a thrill."

"It was a vampire," she said flatly, "At least part of it was. I don't know how I know that."

"Listen," Lydia said, ignoring Maricel's persistence in talking about it, "We don't have time to do this. It's not safe here anymore. We're going to have to leave tonight or the next."

"It will come back," she told Lydia, not so much agreeing with her, but warning her. Why was Lydia lying? What was she hiding?

"It's not the creature I'm worried about," she said, putting on her shoes. Her shoulders ached from being tossed around by the thing, the creature that had once been Steve Wolverton. She grimaced a little as she fixed the straps on the shoes and continued, "I am worried about slayers. Someone will have been monitoring the news looking for leads, and it's only a matter of time before some hotshot slayer puts two and two together. It will kill again, and it has shown no fear of doing it publicly. We gotta skip town before someone shows up with a stake, crossbow and bolt."

"You're afraid of it," Maricel said, her eyes squinted at Lydia in deep concentration. Before Lydia could stop her, she had looked into her mind again. Maricel cocked her eyebrow knowingly and asked, "Who is Steve?"

Lydia spun and stared at her, her eyes starting to glow blue with their angry fire. Maricel slunk back in the chair, suddenly afraid of her. The anger and rage, and more importantly the guilt surrounded Lydia like a dark cloud, both powerful and ugly. Maricel could almost see it, but was blocked by its viscous nature. It was almost as though it were tangible and possessed of a life of its own.

Lydia glared at her, "You listen to me. You've inherited some of my telepathy, and that's fine. But if you go poking around in my head anymore, even just once, I'll kill you. I saved your life, and I don't regret it. But you're crossing a line with me. If you can't live with that, then get out."

Maricel felt tears stinging her eyes. "I'm sorry."

Lydia breathed deep, and the blue radiance abating and revealing her dark, kind eyes again. "I'm sorry too. But there's more, and for you it's going to be a doubly rough night. Tonight, you'll have to feed. I'm not lying to you when I say it will be difficult. And make no mistake that tonight will change your life more than anything."

Maricel sat quietly, listening.

"Don't go anywhere, do you understand? You'll need me to help guide you on this. Try to rest and conserve your strength today," Lydia said.

"I will," she nodded, and caught herself looking Lydia's figure over again. Her body reacted to her curves, to her gestures, to her power. Maricel could not understand the need she had for Lydia. She had never been a lesbian in her life as human, never once even considering it. There had been women who had wanted her, the most tenacious of which had been a fellow hooker named Tiffany. She had tried to seduce Maricel on more than one occassion, but she had just never had the urge to respond. But as a vampire, in the context of her new existence, it was sexual yearning to be sure, and there was shame lining every provocative thought she had about other women since the bite. Especially Lydia...

Running even deeper still, like a strong stream of deep, pure underground water was gratitude; a feeling of debt to Lydia for saving her from the AIDS virus Larry Crispin had infected her with. That debt had led to feelings of strong loyalty and protectiveness.

When Lydia had spoken so angrily to her, it had cut her deeply.

"I will," she repeated, "I promise."

"Thank you," Lydia smiled, but Maricel saw that the smile never reached her eyes. Whatever was happening to Lydia, it was tearing her apart inside. And Maricel didn't know if there was anything she could do to help. Maybe there was no one who could help her. She considered the reality that her fate was destined to be similar to Lydia's, immortal and lonely, a long journey from everything she had ever known to a destination with no end.

Maricel leaned back in the chair and watched Lydia leave.

"Have a good day," she said whispered.

***

Michael arrived at the station a little after ten, and the place was a mad house. It was busier than he had ever seen it before as the officers, detectives and secretaries moved about their business hurriedly. He had just walked into his office, hoping to find Rossetti there waiting for him, as he always had been before, and instead found Chief Hollins sitting behind his desk, looking solemn and as expressionless as a statue.

"Chief?" Michael asked as he closed his door, "What's going on?"

"Michael," Hollins leaned forward, his hands clasped together on the desk and trademark stogie clamped between his teeth, "Where have you been?"

"I overslept," Michael said. His gut told him something was really wrong here, and as he sat down in the chair in front of his own desk, he felt sick anxiety grip him.

"Detective Rossetti is dead, Mike."

"What?" Michael asked, the blood draining from his face as his body went cold. The whole world went so quiet it actually hurt his ears.

"He was found in the alley beside the Art Museum," Hollins told him, "What was left of him was scattered all the place."

"Oh my God," Michael closed his eyes, remembering the thing that had attacked him and Lydia, it's claws and those razor sharp teeth. He could see the glowing red eyes in his mind, two bulging windows into the heart of Hell.

"Rossetti's wife said he was heading out with you last night. Any explanation?"

Michael shifted in his chair. "Are you implying something, sir?"

"I am implying that you have fucking disobeyed my orders for the last goddamn time, you irresponsible prick!" Hollins shouted, spittle flying across his desk. "Now what the fuck were you two doing last night?"

Michael held the Chief's glare, steeling himself not to back down. "We were following up on a lead."

"On which case?" Hollins growled.

"On my case, sir."

"Which fucking case, Wolverton?"

"The Front Page Predator, sir. Larry Crispin."

"And would you mind telling me just what the fuck the Art Museum has to do with anything in your case?"

Michael spoke softly, yet firmly. "Forensics found a footprint in my brother's apartment that matched a print in Crispin's apartment. The umbrella found at the scene led me to the art museum, and to a woman named Lydia Jansen. I can't prove the umbrella is hers, but she looked like she specifically recognized it when I showed it to her. I was waiting for her to leave work so I could follow her, and maybe get a look at her boots."

"Your brother," Hollins muttered as he shook his head in disbelief, "Did I not tell you to stay away from that case?"

"But sir, the footprint-"

"Did I not fucking tell you to stay away from that case?!"

"Yes sir, you did."

"And yet you did it anyway. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Sir," Michael reasoned, keeping his anger in check as a hot film of sweat formed on his forehead, "These two murders are linked, I'm sure of it. Rossetti and I-"

"Rossetti, God rest his soul, is dead," Hollins cut him off, his eyes as sharp and piercing as daggers. He pointed at Michael like an angry father would at his black sheep of a son, "And as far as I am concerned, you are partly, if not fully responsible for his death."

"I didn't kill my own partner," Michael raised his voice, the anger threatening to boil over and consume him. "He was a brother to me."

"Tell it to fucking Abel," Hollins shot back sarcastically, "I know you didn't do it personally, asshole. He was torn apart by what had to be fuckin' wild animal according to what I've heard. But you put him in danger, and he's dead because you couldn't follow... a simple... goddamn... ORDER!"

"Sir-"

"All I am asking for here is a little cooperation!" Hollins yelled so loud that it shook the windows and hurt Michael's ears, slamming his fist down on the desktop. "I pull your sorry, morphine-addicted ass out of the fire how man times now? And then you chop off my dick and shove it right up my ass as a token of appreciation?"

"I am not a morphine addict," Michael retorted, but he didn't believe it enough to say it with any conviction. The words seemed hollow.

"Fuck you, Wolverton," Hollins hissed, "everyone in the department knows it, you know it and your wife knew it. That's why she bailed on you. She couldn't stand the sight of you anymore, and I'm beginning to understand that feeling."

"Now it gets personal," Michael looked at the small window of his office, wishing he could jump out of it, sprout wings and fly away.

"YOU made it personal," Hollins said. "That's why I wanted you off your brother's murder. You lose your judgment when it gets personal, and you become a liability to everyone around you."

"Sir, these murders are connected."

"Where's your fucking proof? An umbrella and some shitty footprints that could belong to any number of size nine bitches in town? Get a fucking clue and realize you are grasping at straws here. You're burnt out, Wolverton, and you're doing a lot of damage to your career, not to mention to this department and my reputation, on the way down."

Michael was quiet, so angry and upset over the loss of Rossetti that he could hardly think. First Stephen, and now Rossetti.

"Why didn't you meet him?"

"What?"

"You two split up, yes?"

"Yes, sir. He dropped me off at the museum around eight and was supposed to meet me back there later on around midnight."

"So where were you?"

"I was attacked."

"By?"

"Whatever killed Rossetti, most likely."

"And that would be?"

Michael considered his words carefully. What he had seen was a monstrosity out of a Stan Winston movie, something that only a demented craftsman could create, animate and bring to life. Hollins glared at him expectantly, waiting for what had to be one fuck of a good explanation.

Tell the truth and shame the devil, he thought to himself.

No, you met the devil last night, his mind replied softly, and he is one scary motherfucker...

"Sir," Michael began, searching for the right words, "It was huge, at least seven feet tall. It was naked, I could see that much. Its skin was pale, like a fish. Some blue mottling... red eyes that glowed, huge fucking claws and teeth look like black razor blades. It had an overly large head and was very strong... impossibly fast."

Hollins looked at him, his face the display for the most perfect poker expression Michael had ever seen. "You saw a monster?"

Michael sighed. "Yes, sir."

The office was unbearably silent.

"You're on suspension until further notice, Wolverton," he said flatly, "Give me your badge and gun."

"But sir, it's the truth."

"Give me the badge and gun. Now."

Michael couldn't blame him. It was too fantastic to even believe, too beyond anything people grounded in everyday life could comprehend. He un-holstered his gun and popped the clip out. He slid it across the desk and handed the clip to Hollins. He pulled his badge out of his jacket pocket and placed it on the desk.

"Do not go near that museum," Hollins warned him as he took the badge and slipped it into his shirt pocket, "Do not go near your brother's apartment. You step close to anything even remotely related to law enforcement or any of these cases, I'll rip your fucking head off through your ass. You are not a cop right now. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Get the fuck out of my building, Wolverton," Hollins dismissed him with a wave of his hand, "You'll be lucky if we don't pin you for involuntary manslaughter, recklessness, ignorance in the chain of command, voluntary dismissal of orders and public endangerment."

Michael thought of the creature in the alley, and suddenly he didn't feel so afraid of the possibly legal ramifications anymore. Some deep intuition told him that the creature would be back, that it has somehow marked him and Lydia. He debated on whether to tell Hollins about Lydia's involvement, and decided against it. He needed to find her first and get some answers before Hollins' weasels got to her.

The image of it's burning eyes in the downpour and those huge teeth, barely covered by those large, fleshy lips flickered on the back of his eyes. "Sir, I'll be lucky if I survive the night."

As he left the station, he could almost hear the creature growling out the only word it had spoken besides Lydia's name that night; "brother..."

***

While Michael spent the rest of his day in his apartment thinking, while Hollins consoled Rossetti's family and while Lydia worked at her front job, giving the appearance of a simple overworked, underpaid secretary of records for the museum, Maricel experienced her first real encounter with the thirst. She was lying on her back, the bed comfortable and warm beneath her when the pain struck her. It was worse than being hungry after four days of no food. It stretched out to every part of her being, a primal urge that seeded her mind with a need and her body with an insatiable want. She sat up in a cold sweat as her fangs became uncomfortably long in her mouth, sharp and deadly.

Her breathing was fast and erratic as she felt the darkness Lydia had warned her about pulling at her, caressing with it's promises of delight and fulfillment if she would only feed, if she would only taste the blood. It unleashed within her it's madness, the uncontrollable desire that Lydia had fought all her life. It wracked Maricel's body as she stood up and paced the room. She held her head in her hands, eyes closed tight and teeth bared.

"No, no, no, no," she chanted against the urges, the thoughts flooding her mind as images of Lydia's past kills came from out of nowhere. It was like she had downloaded Lydia's library of memories into her head during their connection to each other, and she was randomly accessing moments in her life without realizing it. She saw Lydia, looking so beautiful, so painfully gorgeous sinking her teeth into the neck of a man. The blood spurted up as she hit his artery, like a crimson fountain of youth.

The darkness nurtured that idea in her mind, fertilized it in a way that was both repulsive and sexy as she watched the essence of the man pass from his body to Lydia. A flame ignited within her sex, and Maricel gasped as she felt what could only be an orgasm surge through her.

She fell to the floor, the vaginal fluid soaking through her panties and jeans as she writhed, her mouth desperately trying to suck air into her lungs. Her body spasmed as the thirst took a strangle hold on her, and squeezed. She was trapped between a place that knew only pleasure and pain simultaneously. Her nipples erected to an impossible hardness as her claws popped out of her fingertips for the first time. The strange, clear liquid that had replaced her red blood splashed out across the floor as the one-inch long claws unsheathed.

It was a birthing of different kind, a rite of passage as she dug them into the carpet. Her eyes glowed blue, and she could see everything so clearly, every detail on the ceiling, every bump and groove in the texture.

"No," she hissed and unhooked her claws from the carpet, curling into the fetal position, "No please, no..."

Her fear of the darkness within was almost as powerful as the temptation it forced on her, the lusty need for blood. She tried to fight it, but in the end she felt only a resignation that she knew Lydia had found right before her first kill. It was a surrender, a giving way to the inevitability of what she had become, what she was going to do if she wanted to live, if she wanted to see another night.

She would become a murderer, a killer in the name of survival. She would hunt tonight, and before the dawning of the morning sun, someone would die so that she could live.

***

Michael stood in the elevator of the art museum by himself as it slowly lowered him to the basement level, where the records were kept and where Lydia worked. He didn't know if she would be there, and he knew that if she were the killer he suspected she was, she would be long gone. Lydia had proven she was too smart to linger any longer than she had to.