Member
VeiledLonging
Bloodrose
ASDAValueMilk September 11th, 1996. Outskirts of Lisburn, Ireland.
“Lediyah’s completely out of control,” Frank Gorman grumbled to his wife, as he sat heavily down at the kitchen table “I think Doctor Accosi was right; she needs to be put in a secure facility.” He scratched away at the stubble on his pointed chin, letting out a slight grunt as his aching bones relaxed back into the shoddy wooden chair.
“But Frank, she’s our daughter!” Jenna Gorman pleaded, her face a quivering mess of sadness and worry “We don’t even know if she’s been suspended, yet.”
“Suspended?!” Frank laughed without the faintest trace of humour“Jenna, she’ll at least have been expelled! We’re fecking lucky that boy’s parents didn’t press charges!”
“I don’t want to lose our baby, Frank…” Jenna muttered softly, her eyes shimmering with a thin layer of water.
“We’re not losing her, my love,” Frank took his wife’s delicate hand, gently caressing her fingers “She’ll be getting help. Once everything's been sorted out she’ll come back and live with us, and things will be just like they used to.”
“Before her...before her powers?” as the words left Jenna Gorman’s lips she looked utterly terrified, as though uttering them would bring down the wrath of every god and demon upon her.
“Aye. Before her powers.”
A cold silence fell over the kitchen.
“I’ll go and wake Marcus, then.” Frank said eventually, heaving his bulky mass out of the chair “I’d suspect he’ll want to say goodbye to his sister.”
Frank Gorman gave his wife a quick kiss on the cheek, calmly reassuring her that everything would be okay, before plodding out of the kitchen and making his way up the rickety wooden stairs to his children’s bedrooms.
Theirs was a small cottage, with a stretch of field running a dewy green ring around it on either side. It wasn’t the nicest of houses, but Frank had built himself a life here, and these battered stone walls were full of memories.
“Marcus?” Frank called out softly, as he gently tapped the wooden door.
No answer.
“Marcus..?” Once more, louder this time.
Still no answer.
Frank smirked to himself. The boy was probably fast asleep.
He took hold of the dull brass door knob, turning it carefully as he padded calmly into his son’s room.
“Marcus, I-”
Frank stopped dead in his tracks.
There was Marcus. His limp body hung from the ceiling, one of his father’s belts fastened around his neck. His milk pale corpse was covered in bites and scratches, swinging lifelessly from the celling light, but it was the eyes which were most terrifying of all.
His eyes had been gouged out, with only bony sockets, oozing dark worms of blood, left.
“My boy...” He was going to be sick.
Frank rushed forwards, tearing his son down from the ceiling, sending chunks of plaster crashing to the carpeted floor.
“My boy!” Frank wailed, tears streaming down his face, as he clutched tightly at the scarred corpse of his son.
“Frank?!” His wife’s voice called up from downstairs “What’s wrong?!”
“My boy…” he sobbed, his throat hoarse as he ran his hands over the bloodied body of his youngest child.
“My baby!” His wife was in the doorway, then she was beside him, screeching and crying and grabbing at the mangled corpse of Marcus Gorman.
“Mum? Dad?”
Frank turned, his face a mess of tears, to see his daughter standing out on the landing.
She had his pointed features, and her mother’s oval face. Her nose was short and stubby, and blonde hair, so pale that it looked white in the dim lights of the cottage, was swept across her round head.
“Lediyah,” Frank croaked, his voice little more than a whisper “don’t look, baby girl. Don’t look.”
“Do you like my sculpture?”
It was then that Frank saw them.
The eyes of his son, hanging from two pinky red stalks, dangling from his daughter’s hand.
“Oh God, Lediyah!” Jenna Gorman shrieked, recoiling backwards into the darkness of her son’s bedroom, one tear-soaked hand clasped over her mouth.
“You fecking monster!” Frank Gorman roared, bolting out of the room, and charging towards his daughter.
In all his blind fury, he’d forgotten about her powers.
There was a slash of dull white, then Frank stopped in his tracks, and tumbled forwards. Blood was seeping out of searing gash in his hard stomach, staining the carpet red as it poured through his fingers.
“Lediyah-” he gasped, clutching at his new wound as pain raked every cell in his body. His world became a blur, and all that he could think about was the twisting pain where his daughter’s claws hand torn through his flesh.
The blonde girl stood over him, regarding her father with a look of grim curiosity, a twinkle in her pale eyes and a sharp grin on her lips.Where her finger nails had been, was now a set of long, pointed claws, sharp and hooked, with a slight reddish hue, like those of a cat.
She smiled at him, flashing rows of elongated fangs. They were far too big for her mouth as they burst out of her small pink gums.
He felt another spasm of pain as she sunk her claws into his belly, wrenching it open in a splatter of dark red blood.
His was in that black, wet place beyond pain by now, but he could faintly hear his wife screaming as his eyes fluttered shut, and his daughter started biting through his side.
*
Present Day. Santa Somabra, West Coast of the United States of America.
"We are not your kind of people. Speak a different language. We see through your lies. We are not your kind of people. Won't be cast as demons. Creatures you despise."
Lediyah’s voice was soft and sweet as she sung smoothly from behind the old timey microphone stand, her lithe figure bound up in a shoulderless dress, red like freshly spilled blood.
The song ended. The music died. The Audience applauded.
The Irish girl made her way carefully down the stage steps, wearing a pristine pair of high heels.
She smiled politely as she made her way through the crowd, shooting the odd wink to the occasional customer.
Miller’s Jazz club was one of her favorite places to sing, with its authentic decor and lush red sofas. Soft lights, not too bright and not too dark, hung from the ceiling, and the smell of sizzling meat drifted in from the kitchen.
A saxophone player had set up on stage now, providing a mellow blues backing track.
“Evenin’, Welles.” Lediyah smiled as she strode over to the bar, nodding politely at the grey-bearded, suit vest-wearing, bartender who stood behind the counter.
“Evening, Lediyah.” Welles gave her a big warm grin, leaning in and resting his elbows on the counter, whilst the Irish girl swung her long legs over a bar stool.
“The usual, please.”
Welles frowned. “You know the boss don’t like me serving that stuff to non-vamps.”
Lediyah leant forwards, flashing a toothy grin.
“I bring in half the bosses revenue. I’m sure you can run the risk.”
She gently bit her lip, fluttering her soft eyelashes.
“I promise I won’t squeal.” She placed one long finger on her left breast, tracing an invisible cross.
“Cross my heart and hope to die.” Her light Irish accent laced her words, only adding to her charm.
Welles shook his head, laughing to himself.
“The usual, coming right up.”
He ducked down beneath the counter, and when he returned he placed a pint glass full of a thick, dark red liquid in front of her.
“Thank you, sweetie.” She took a long swig, necking a healthy guzzle of the sweet tasting concoction.
“Oh, the boss left this for you.” Welles reached into his suit trouser pocket, pulling out a thin white note, which he slid across to her.
Her interest piqued, Lediyah unfolded the crisp piece of paper with her delicate fingers.
“Dearest Lediyah.
I wish to hire your services. My little birds think there might be an informant tampering with our operations. I have nothing solid to go on, but it's worth investigating. I wouldn’t waste your time on something so trivial, but you’re the only agent I have who operates with such refined discretion.
The target’s name is Valorie Pierce.
Kind Regards.
The Alchemist.”
Lediyah carefully folded the note, grinning to herself.
“Looks like I’m clocking in early, Welles. Send the boss my love.”
