(OOC: This is posted with only the most rudimentary editing, and without any sort of proper conclusion, simply because we had fun doing it and thought others might have fun following along. Enjoy!))
The Clockwork Doll: For the acrobat in her bed upstairs, the shift from sleep to consciousness was instantaneous and absolute. The indiglo numbers of her bedside clock said it had been several hours since she'd crawled between the sheets, and the feel of pillow creases etched into her cheek confirmed it. She brought no dreams back with her, and for that she was grateful.
The Clockwork Doll She gave herself a full minute by the light of the clock to stare at the ceiling and let the details of her life catch up to her. She was in her own bed, alone, and still fully dressed. Her face felt too hot and she knew with a certainty there was something she was supposed to have done and hadn't. A deep inhale of faintly bleach-scented air as she sat up was a very sudden and effective reminder.
The Clockwork Doll Even in the dark blues found the outline of the black plastic trash bag easily enough. With a soft sigh, she fumbled for the bedside lamp and squinted against the mellow spill of soft light that brought the room slowly into focus.
The Clockwork Doll Dammit. She'd slept too long, and the task left undone now pulled her from the bed to feet cringing for the chill of the floor. There would be people in the common room now— too many sets of eyes for her liking, but every hour she left the bag sitting in her room increased the chances someone like Maurice would find it. She wasn't prepared for the questions discovery would bring with it— there was too much at stake.
The Clockwork Doll Only minutes awake and moments from her bed, she crammed unwilling toes deep into the bite of her shoes and bent to catch up the bag of her bloodied clothes and towels. Even through the plastic she could smell the tang of copper and the burning harshness of bleach, scents that recalled with clarity the horror-movie scene that had been Bishop's office when she and Aoife had tracked him down. He's alive and he's safe....she reminded herself to suppress the shudder that threatened the length of her spine. Alive, safe, and just as complicated as ever...you can go check for yourself as soon as you clean up your mess...it was motivation enough to get her moving out the door, a frown digging deep when she realized it had been unlocked as she slept. She sighed and transferred the weight of the bag to her left hand, digging for the key in her back pocket with the right. An exercise in futility since she planned to be right back, but he'd told her to keep her *** locked up, and given the insanity of the past few days it seemed a good idea.
The Clockwork Doll It's just your trash and you're taking it to the dumpster. Nobody here knows what?s in the bag, so pull yourself together and be cool. She lectured herself in silence as she padded down the hallway towards the stairs, schooling her features into the very mask of casual indifference as the bag and its grisly contents bounced softly against the muscles of her calves.
Artsblood There is no need to go inside yet, no need to prowl, enough to squat cross-legged beneath the budding oaks, skin white as a toadstool, and smell the blood of the world as it learned to flow again, see the kaleidoscope of night turning, and hear the songs of things that burrow and return life to the living soil.
The Clockwork Doll Two steps down gave blues a good view of the common room and she hesitated, scanning the faces below for any sign of trouble. When none was found, she resumed her descent with restraint. She wanted a cigarette...she wanted a whole pack of cigarettes and a good long swallow of his god-awful SCOTCH. It was a little air of defiance that saw her from the bottom of the steps to the kitchen door, plastic bag dogging her every move.
Artsblood The bow finds a certain peace when it is finally drawn, the dagger as it executes it's Olympic dive into flesh, the pistol when the bullet is choked out at last. Such a consolation is hers, and she sings its accompaniment, wordless scat woven amongst the wind-songs.
Artsblood: Her nose is perceptive, and some things call to it more than others do. The odor is so ripe as to be termed a stench, but she drinks it in eagerly, whispers in her little ruined voice. "A dress rehearsal for a funeral, how fortunate and how timely."
The Clockwork Doll Breathing came easier in spite of the bleach smell when the door to the kitchen swung shut behind her. It's not like you're hiding a body. It's just clothes. Pull your sh*t together. She said none of this aloud, but growled softly to herself to punctuate the thoughts and hefted the bag in both hands. A backwards lean into the door to the alley saw her standing outside, blues peering into the dark to search out the dumpster. She'd slept too long...it was meant to be a quick nap— time enough to give Bishop some rest and herself a little room to breathe easy.
Artsblood She uncoils slowly, luxuriating in it. There are walls surrounding the alley, walls susceptible to a rat's scamper; it is easy enough for her to top one, to perch there, skinny knees high and framing her, white hands clenched upon the fence between them, flesh-poor face thrust forward like a gargoyle, such games are the salt which one uses to tolerate foods too often eaten.
The Clockwork Doll While it worked in her favor for the purpose at hand, the darkness prickled along the back of her neck and gave rise to unsettling thoughts. She had plenty of reasons to move quickly as she picked her way around puddles of unknown liquid and unidentifiable piles of trash towards the dumpster, cursing her shortness of stature when the lid leveled off with her forehead. "Goddammit." she sighed, trying her best to ignore the creeping sensation the feel of too-few eyes always brought as she did her best to leverage the heavy plastic lid out of her way.
Artsblood Her little voice, torn from her throat as always, as if she had swallowed barbed wire and choked it free. "Surely you can smell the rot in him, missy dear. I warrant that my own blood is sweeter."
The Clockwork Doll With the proper combination of force and profanity, the lid bounced back just enough to allow for a quick shove that sent the plastic bag tumbling down into the depths of the dumpster....just in time for the tortured sound of a ruined voice to freeze the blood in her veins. The lid dropped heavily behind her as she spun, dropping low to the ground on the balls of her feet like an animal in preparation for flight. "Arts.."
Artsblood She launches herself easily, skinny legs uncoiling in something akin to slow motion, and floats rather than falls to the puddled ground between the girl and the door back to the Inn. "In person, missy dear, surely you didn't believe that the prior interruption has put a period to our little consultation?"
The Clockwork Doll Oh, you stupid, stupid girl....Blues gone too-wide watched as the wintery creature cut off her connection to the safety of numbers, a brush of her hand to the emptiness of her back pocket settling lead in her stomach for the lack of his chisel. She was cut off from escape with no weapon but her wits and her voice, the latter coming softly through clenched teeth from her tight little crouch near the ground. "I hoped."
Artsblood She moves closer, easy on the balls of her feet, little to this encounter of the point and counterpoint of the evening past, she cants her head, mantis like, and gasps out the words. "And yet I have done nothing to you to deserve this antipathy, to fertilize this horror. I am at a loss, missy dear, if I cannot wash it away, must I earn it?" She is close enough to grab now, skinny arms snake quick; close enough to strike, too, if one had a weapon; she seems quite complacent about the latter.
The Clockwork Doll "Don't touch me!!" she hissed, drawing in tight upon herself though a small hand lifted to deflect the grasp of freakish digits. "What do you want, Arts?"" Blues worked quickly in the dark, searching for anything that could buy her freedom or give her protection.
Artsblood She croons out the quote, "'they fly from me who one time did me seek.'I want the truth from you, pretty miss, though perhaps the haze will not leave your eyes in a minute or an hour. I think I will offer you a short vacation, and during it, though I will touch you not, I will let you examine the Dante's levels of my personal horror, and hope to bring some perspective to your youth-jaundiced eyes?"
The Clockwork Doll Blues found nothing but litter, puddles reflecting moonlight and the way to freedom barred by her nightmare made flesh. Trapped like a trembling little creature with her back against the rusted, stinking metal of a dumpster, she listened to those polished words roll blithely from the woman's tongue and felt the spark of indignation flare to life within her core. "Say what you mean, Arts...I don't understand you."
Artsblood When it happens it is almost gentle, so swift and expertly is the girl seized and lifted. Her weight is as nothing to the pipestem arms, and though they wrap as strong as rebar they hold with a strange gentility. "You will come home with me missy dear. You will stay in my house for several days, and I will show you what I am, the worse and the worst, so you may make an informed judgment."
The Clockwork Doll No time to scream...to kick, to thrash, to bite before those arms banded her about with the unwelcome kiss of winter.....only time to think of the man behind the door of one-oh-one and a promise to return that will not be kept.
Artsblood She is not a mind reader, but she is old and has seen many things, she delivers a chaste kiss, cold at the touch of an ice cube, to the girl's forehead, and whispers, chill breath against her skin. "You will be coming back, never fear. Your mortality is not at risk here, pretty miss, only your parochialism, and perhaps your sanity."
Artsblood She does not even dignify the kidnapping with real flight, but only walks swiftly and silently thought the trees and into the night. In an oak-ringed clearing, where the pale moon picks out her face in white illumination, she smiles at Dali, letting her skimmilk feeding teeth slip free like delicately carved jewels.
Artsblood And whispers, her voice muffled by the extended teeth. "You've never even seen these, and yet your horror, imagine my sorrow, missy dear."
The Clockwork Doll Like the kiss, the words brought no comfort at all, just a shudder to shake her hard against the woman and test the strength of those slender cold arms....but she is small, and it is dark, and those teeth glitter so brightly in the moonlight.
Artsblood The bag left in the trash is the only sign left behind, and the pale woman croons to her captive, like a mother to a colicky child, as the night grows colder and darker around them,
Artsblood The trees thinned out as they reached the abandoned shotgun motel, its parking lot cracked and blacktop sprouting weeds like a wino's haircut. It was once called The Outpost Motel, but enough lights had failed to leave only "O pos Motel" blinking. Call it Toreador humor. Still crooning, the pale woman slips into one room, her burden easily carried, and through a connecting door into another, far more secure, where she actually lives. There is little there but a mattress and sheets and a kitchenette with merlot and a sugar bowl holding pride of place on the counter.
Artsblood She settles Dahlia on a pillow in the corner of the room, chains from the wall hold shackles, which she snugs on with an apologetic smile. "A former lover," she simpers, "I never thought I'd use them again."
Clockwork Dahlia 2:37 am She'd struggled...hard as she could against the bonds of winter-white arms until the reality of her situation set in. Like the doll whose spring had come unwound, she settled broken against the cold strength of her captor. "Please don't kill me...please don't kill me..." her mantra, her plea, whispered over and over again to the trees they pass and the burned-out letters of the motel sign.
She'd held the smallest hope that someone might see...might take notice of a dark little woman pressed hard in the arms of a monster, drifting through the night, but it melted from her and renewed her struggles when the door closed on freedom behind them. Just as well, those manacles....she was tensed and trembling, blues wide and searching for their opportunity as she strained against them to the sound of rattling metal. "Please.." she was not above begging, "...let me go, Arts."
Artsblood The pale woman smiles, thin lips twisted in regret, and brushes the dark hair softly away from where its linger might tickle or irritate. "I will, missy dear, I promise you that. You are safer here by far than in your own sweet bed. But you have things to learn. She withdraws her hands, and stares at the girl briefly, her face too thin, but vulnerable and feminine, and the great eyes pools of need. And then, as if a switch were thrown, the killing teeth are back and her face is drawn into a horror of cat fury, a face that would tear the throat from the very world just to be the one to do so.
And as quickly, she is a skinny girl again, awkwardly crossing her legs in front of her captive. Her head tipped in question. "Which is me, missy love, are they both' Which had you seen before you looked on me with disgust'
Clockwork Dahlia She twists away from the dance of those fingers in her hair, shuddering as they pollute the memory of strong, masculine hands patiently working the knots and tangles from section after section. Bishop...why did you send me away' Teeth set hard on the nearly-healed split in her lower lip, piercing it anew and giving rise to a single drop of blood that glistens vividly on twisted cherry-ripe curves. Don't look at her...don't look in her eyes....but those teeth will not be denied. Perhaps she cries out, a strangled little sound that catches in her throat and whispers out brokenly with the copper-bright smell of blood. "I don't know! What do you want me to say" The back of her head meets with the unforgiving hardness of something...a wall" a headboard, perhaps"...but will let her retreat no further from the creature seated before her. "What are you?"
Artsblood She speaks softly, not exactly with regret, neither confession nor apology, but a release nonetheless. "We are compelled not to discuss it. It is called the Masquerade, and violation of the Masq is not looked upon kindly. I do you a courtesy, missy dear, because I owe you that much. You would call me vampire. Our word is simply the kin, or kindred. I am of a clan called Toreador, we cling to our humanity like the flotsam from a shipwreck, and love the arts to the point where beauty can send us into torpor and vulnerability. Also, and completely separate from that, I am a lover of women, though not catholic in my tastes. The girl Michelle would be my lover if I allowed it. She does not move me so, though. But I need to feed as do you, and for my kind to feed on such as you is an erotic coupling. Imagine every vein and capillary becoming an erogenous zone and played upon by the heart that sings to your heart. It is all I can give her, and what she can give me. I believe she would be happy to die in the process, though it is I who hold back at that border, not she, I can assure you. Am I a monster, missy dear" Is everyone who eats a cow more monstrous than I who sip the blood of the enamored and give them pleasure beyond what I or any other could offer in a simple bedding" These are the questions we will study, you and I.
Clockwork Dahlia Hey stupid girl...those are manacles and chains. It doesn't matter how hard you pull, they aren't gonna break for you. These are her thoughts, but she twists her hands hard into the bite of metal in defiance of chains and reason alike as knees press hard to still the wild bird and its beating wings that is caged inside her chest. Futile gestures, all. She sighs and lets her shoulders drop— the tension will only serve to wear her down faster, and there is still hope she will find a way out. But for now"...she listens...faintly surprised by the explanation so freely given. The unexpected teases wild blues from their frantic searching to a wary fix on moving lips. She won't dare the depths of those eyes and what she has seen hiding there.
"Is that what you plan to do to me" Feed on me like a cow?" panic in that little voice, though she twists and shapes it, searching through her collection of voices to lend strength and defiance to her words.
Artsblood She sighs, it is a weary peristalsis through the thin length of her. " I had hoped to avoid this, but a demonstration seems to be in order." Snake quick her skinny hands snatch at Dali's chin and lift her face before her eyes can hide behind the desperate lids. The mooneyes catch her like hooks set hard and well, and the kindred will behind them overwhelms like kudzu covering an old barn. Under their imperative the girl has no choice but to adore the woman in front of her, to desire her desperately, to worship her like the most lost of adolescent lovers. Arts drives the message deep, so that it reaches every pore of the girl's skin, and then jerks her eyes away, blinking, freeing her from the enchantment. "That is what I can do, any time, to anyone. I do not. And you honestly believe I would feed on you all unwilling" What happened to the girl I held in her despair and sorrow" Is she as far from you as my monster is from me"
Clockwork Dahlia Blues have only the flash of white to warn her of those incoming hands, time enough for muscle to tense, but to absolutely no end. She looks deep into those eyes...she has no choice, and feels the world fall away around her. In those eyes she finds more beauty than she could ever find in the binding feel of silks, a longer glimpse of the divine than she has ever found in all her efforts to defy gravity. For all her fear, she has shed no tears...until now. They well in the shine of blues and rise up, spilling hot in fat droplets over the dark thicknesses of lashes, shivering brilliantly in the low light like jewels on her pale skin. No air...no reason to breathe. All that is wanted...needed....is found in those eyes. And then she blinks, and the spell is broken. The air rushes in to set fire to her lungs, setting free a shattered cry that shakes body and chains in a wild little dance.
Artsblood Sighing again, she brings the scattered blankets from her own mattress, the only other pillow, and leaves them with the girl. "The chains are long enough to allow you to sleep, missy dear. Strangely enough, I find myself glad that you are manacled, because I would fear to slip into sleep in the presence of a monster such as you." The rising sun scatters through the chinks in the boarded window, and the pale woman composes herself on the empty mattress, and falls into a sleep that leaves death with no drama.
Clockwork Dahlia All her years of training to teach her body and mind to willingly do the impossible— to ignore the inexorable laws of gravity and set aside the reasonable fear of pain or death in the pursuit of precious flight, and she can't even stop the shaking of her two small hands or calm the breath that rushes in and out in ragged, frantic gasps.
She can hear the rustle of movement, the whisper of fabric and the soft thump that settles the pillow and blankets at her side, but those eyes are tightly shut, sealed against further assault and invasion by salty tears drying on dark, matted lashes. It's a natural thing, to cower from what you fear, but the instinct to draw back wars with the corruption of forced desire to twist her— body and soul, against her many forms of bondage. Her struggle leaves her skin galled by the feel of metal and her mind a tangle of residual need and desire that are not her own.
She flinches anew at the sound of a voice that once brought comfort. Loathsome though it is to her now, it orients her to the change in the woman's position and brings the smallest measure of relief for the distance that separates them. When Arts sleeps, it is with an imperative the little acrobat now understands. It will be hours before she wakes— hours Dali will spend alone with the knowledge that by her own design and reckless stupidity not a soul knows the danger she is in or where to find her.
This is all your fault. You know that, don't you? You invited a vampire into your bed'did you really think this would end well"
It's a bitter, heartsick little laugh that breaks the thin crust of blood on her lower lip and starts the flow from the split there anew, but she welcomes the metallic taste— proof of life she folds into her mouth with the swipe of an angry tongue.
She has plenty of time now to survey her prison when blues peel reluctantly open — the tiny slices of sunlight that brave the wrath of boards at the windows say so. With a broken sigh as the stability of rhythmic breath returns, she loosens the rigor of legs pressed to her chest and lets a slippered foot slide out to find comfort in the light and heat. It's just a tiny stripe of sun, a golden thread against the black fabric of her shoe, but it is sacred and clean and seeps in slowly to ease the chill in her bones and burn away a little more of the evil she feels inside her.
"R'ddu m"r!" she snarls, just to hear the sound of her voice".to know she can still speak. Shocking words taken out of context, and words she'd grown too fond of lately— but for all their perversity, they remind her of Bishop. This thought and the little kiss of sun with the heat it radiates gives her a moment of reckless hope and prompts a tantrum, of sorts. She throws herself against the chains, arching her body ferociously and straining hard with the weight of her body away from the wall until the bite of metal grating around her tender wrists and the futility of the gesture makes her stop.
Wrong time, wrong place for that kind of talk, but good pronunciation. Bishop would approve.
And now it's a bitter, despairing little thought' yeah, he might approve, but he's not here. And she's not there, fumbling her way through a minefield of awkwardness and tension just for the chance to be near him in that *** room at Jody's. She all but gave him her word she'd help him home today"home to a place where her help isn't needed and where she's not welcome because the ghost that haunts him won't approve. The man had been quick to judge. What would he make of her absence"
Defeated, she throws herself hard into the wall by a shoulder, slumping down slowly with the clatter and jangle of chains into a boneless tangle of pale limbs, twisted metal and too much hair, surrendering to the truth that she is well and truly *** in whatever language she used.
She sighs, a long and drawn-out growling sound that takes the very last of the air from her lungs as she considers how many times he's tried to convince her in one way or another they're a bad idea. Maybe he's right. Maybe he's just another set of hungry mooneyes waiting to swallow her whole for the darkness of her hair and the blue of her eyes. Maybe she's just the little blank slate upon which he can re-write the history of his mistakes. And maybe none of it matters, because he's chained to his past just as surely as she's chained to the wall, and neither of them can save the other for the chance to find out for sure. When the air rushes in to fill the emptiness in her lungs, it tastes stale and burns the whole way down.
Are you crazy yet, stupid girl" That's what she wants, you know" why she chained you up like her own little pet. She's going to keep you here and play with you like a toy until you break, and there's nothing you can do about it.
"I'm not a toy." It's a quiet, childish counter to her own thoughts, huffed out with a breath that stirs the prison-bar fringe of tickling hair from her face, but it feels good. She feels the familiar dig of a crease working its way into her brow and tests the feel of the words again as she lifts her head. "I'm not a toy." What does she have to lose" Control of her own thoughts and feelings, her sanity, her life" Arts has proven she can take them away at any time, but all of these things she has for now, and she will use them.
With a suddenness that defies reason and precludes thought, she twists her hands hard into her chains again as though they were the whispering kiss of her beloved silks, this time coiling them around her wrists with purpose until the tension in them lifts her body up. She doesn't care about the rough edges that rub her skin raw, just throws herself into their binding strength and adds the pain they bring to her voice when she pours out her wrath on the sleeping woman.
"Do you hear me, Arts" I"M NOT YOUR GODDAMN F*CKING TOY!" There is venom in her voice when she lashes out with all the frustration and fear, uncertainty and anger that's been building in her for weeks. But it's not enough to scream her rage at that silent, sleeping form when it's the whole of her person that's been subdued. She strains against the strength of the chains to reach for something".anything". the pillow at her side, snarling in mindless fury when it eludes hands-turned-claws. So she kicks"all the force and power in those sculpted-muscle legs whipping the blankets into chaos and sending the pillow ducking for cover beneath the bed.
When there is nothing left to kick or throw and no air left in her lungs to scream, she goes silent, panting and shaking with the wrath of a wild creature caged, feeling for the first time the heat and damp spill of fiery tears scorching the pale skin of her cheeks.
Save it. You've got a long day ahead of you. Pull your *** together and rest.
Her fury brought to heel, she lets the coiling wrap of chains slither free from bruised arms with imprints that will linger and bloom in shades of blue and purple as she sinks slowly to a crouch with her back against the wall. There is fire in the depths of blues that burn down the line of an icy back, narrowed and dangerous as the shards of sunlight slowly lengthen and creep their way across the floor.
Artsblood She wakes like a thrown switch, as if the lost hours were nothing, as if she didn't dream. A small moue of distaste warps her almost pretty face (but so thin, too thin) at the scent of dried blood. Rising with the grace of a sapling standing after a storm, the pale thing pads into the kitchen, pours wine and water. It is all that there is save sugar. Soft footed again, she returns and folds herself (and surely the athlete must admire that grace, however suspicious of it she must also be).
"I have wine and water. The latter might soothe your wrists, missy. You should have slept, but I will allow you that when you wish, and perhaps fetch salve and a more fulfilling sup. Before we continue, might I be allowed to sum up the lessons thus far?"
Artsblood "I am strong beyond your anticipation, I believe; and my eyes can steal away the will as easily as a wolf might make off with an unattended babe. And yet I do not take my food by force or by manipulation of consciousness, but only when offered freely. Is there perhaps a lesson there" What powers do you have, and do you always disdain them when they might help you get what you wish' I don't know how to make this much clearer, and I know you don't wish to frustrate me. Perhaps you wish to taste the sensual ecstasy of the feeding to know if I lie about that and everything else? Surely you must have wondered about that, the Santa Claus that might be real."
She sips the wine, and pushes both glasses within reach, settling down on the formidable springs of her skinny, folded legs.
Clockwork Dahlia Silent...almost stoic, the little acrobat rests with her back against the wall, the same position she has held as the daylight faded into darkness. Blues fix hard on the planes of that too-thin face and eventually the wine-kissed lips, but are careful to avoid the eyes at all costs. She keeps her silence and her stillness like weapons at the ready, and behind the brilliance of blues the rightly-named monster slowly begins to awaken. "Let me go." It is the proper way to begin, for if her request is honored"...nothing more need follow.
Artsblood She smiles, thin lipped but wide, and the mooneyes bathed with gentleness in the poor light.
Artsblood "Of course I will, missy dear. What possible use could I have for you like this for more than the briefest interlude" But first I am attempting to reason with you, in the only way you have decided to allow me. Shall I bring a mirror" Try to look beyond your perfectly rational fear and your surely deserved anger to the events that brought us to this little summit. I grow exasperated that I have not been able to clarify the issue yet!
Clockwork Dahlia "And I grow exasperated with these goddamn f*cking chains." She's promised Bishop she'd never do it again—- call upon the rasp of his voice and shape it to flow from her lips, but it's a promise she breaks in a moment of need, wearing the uncanny affectation of his voice like armor when she speaks. "You want to talk to me...make me see your side of things, this sure as f*ck ain't the way to do it." She lurches then, thrusting her arms out wide to the sides to bare the hateful marks wrap around pale skin.
Artsblood The change of voice might have amused her, but the obtuseness that it hides only moves her to anger. She leans forward, quicker than a striking snake, the feeding teeth slipping free with a tiny wet noise, the brown eyes wide and deep as pits into which one might fall forever, her ruined little voice choked with fury.
Artsblood "Do you really not see or are you so afraid of looking within that you would tear your own eyes out first' Let me state it plainly, missy dear," and there is venom in the term, "this is not about your kisses or the purported pleasures of your agile little form. I was kind to you. And with no reason you turned from that to look on me with disgust and horror, for an act that I was all but begged to do, for an act that I used none of my strength or will to force, for an act for which I was more blameless than you for the most innocent of your adolescent kisses. Is there clarity now, does the light shine through' Because if it does not then perhaps all of my efforts at abstinence have been a sham, a self delusion, and perhaps I should abandon my sanctimonious abstention and be a monster worthy of your disgust, one to put to shame the horror that peers at me from behind your pretty eyes."
Clockwork Dahlia She was ready this time...as ready as one could be against a creature that moved so quickly. Blues eclipsed in the hard press of lashes, the furrow in her brow digging deep as her face twisted with the exertion. She can feel the chill of that too-pale flesh even from a distance, though the words roll over her hot and angry. She listens, for all that her eyes will not open. She keeps her tight form against the strength of the wall, her pitiful safe harbor against the breaking storm of Artsblood's wrath. When the moment of quiet comes, she finds herself curiously ready. It is her own voice that answers, low, though strained by the rapid beating of her heart and the air that cannot fill her lungs quite fast enough. "Yes...you were kind to me...and I used you. I've admitted that. I'm not proud of what I did there, Arts." Conscience wars with the monster coiled behind blues, and conscience wins out, though reluctantly. Lashes break apart slowly as blues open to the woman before her. She will not meet her eyes, but a point just beyond that ruined dandelion hair will do for now. She takes a deep breath and wills the shaking of her hands to cease before the rattle of chains gives her away. "...I didn't ask questions I should have because I didn't want to know what you were— I didn't care who or what you were, just that I wasn't alone anymore, and you were right.....for that, I am a monster."
Artsblood She leans back, the trademark mantid cant of her head, the razorslash of her mouth curved weak with remorse. "So close, little miss, you are so close to it, but you still don't see it perfectly. Rest your mind. I will not harm you. I will not rape your will. I will not force you to taste the ecstasy beyond belief when every capillary is penetrated as if by a gentle and patient lover. But hear me once more. It is not that you did not dare learn what I was before, it was what you did when the knowledge was forced upon you. I do not deserve that disgust, that fear. I charge you with using your own penknife weapons more cruelly that I use the broadswords you condemn me for. That is it. No more and no less. I ask not for your love or your friendship or your forgiveness. I only want to see you look at yourself as you looked at me."
Clockwork Dahlia "It was my hands, " she speaks softly to the breath of winter that clings on the woman's lips. "...that stopped the bleeding of that woman's neck." Her fingers twitch, a soft flex in memory of the deed. "I knelt on that porch with a man I barely knew and together we tried to fix the damage that you caused. That woman was crazy, Arts. She may have begged you on her knees to do what you did, but you can't tell me she was in her right mind to ask." She pauses, folds the split curve of her lip into her mouth to wet it with the anxious roll of her tongue before she continues, her voice controlled and low, but with an edge like the finest of knives. "You want me to compare myself, my actions to yours....but I say this— you kidnapped me. You chained me to a wall and you forced yourself inside my mind. I used you...that's true. But at least you had the choice to walk away, Arts." It's a gradual shift, but the line of her back straightens against the wall, her chin lifting slowly until wary blues dare to fix on mooneyes and glare out their defiance.
Artsblood She sighs, and it shakes her skinny form like a fever. She rocks her dandelion head from side to side, and when she speaks there is a deadness to her voice that wasn't there before, the flatness after the pulse surrenders, the lack of intonation that strips a poem of its song. "Delusion, dances, masks, and rationalizations. There is your answer, I fear. I expected too much, once again. So here my little judge and jury, here is your choice..." One, two, skinny arms flash out, there is a brief sensation of cold and the rat-scream of tortured metal, and the manacles lie broken. The pale creature stands, turns, and composes herself on the mattress again, her back to her former captive. "The doors will open from the inside. Whatever happens from here is yours to own. I wish you good fortune with that." Drawing her knees up to her pitiful breasts, the white woman lies still.
Clockwork Dahlia She flinches when those hands dance near, though to her credit, the gesture is small. A tightening of that soft jaw, the subtle turn of her head and the tight flex of her fingers into a ball— just the way he showed her for a punch she'll never throw. Arts is already settling herself on the bed with that broken form of grace when the acrobat feels the weight of chains lifted. She lingers in her crouch, wary and guarded...hands wringing the galled flesh of her wrists as she studies the pale form in silence. When she rises, it is a slow unfolding that gives over-taxed muscles the chance to adjust and remember their place in an upright world. "How old are you, Arts." Her voice is soft..on the move...coming from the direction of the doorway where she stands with a hand rested on the knob.
Artsblood Her fists are against her mouth, her ruined voice muffled. "They always want to know that, don't they' Not as old as the blood within me, little miss. I am in some ways its chalice and not its mistress. In your years I would only be a lass in her 60s from my coal town roots, but the blood that I carry counts centuries as I might decades. A writer once said that humans were things that water invented to help it get around. It is an image that rings true to me. So now you know that secret as well. But surely it would have no relevance were I to say 16 or 1600, would it'
Clockwork Dahlia "No." she answers, the fire and rage bled out of that small voice to leave weariness and perhaps a note of quiet regret. "But in either case you've been around long enough to know you can't force people to accept you." Her fingers work at the handle to the door, testing it...but she does not open it yet. It is not an insult, but an act of faith when she gives the small and vulnerable curve of her back to the pale creature curled up on the mattress. "I am sorry for the way I used you, Arts....but you can't make me be alright with things you've done." There is a long moment of silence, and then the soft click of the door handle followed by the whisper of denim and the brush of leather soled shoes as the little acrobat takes her leave.
Artsblood The door once closed will not open again from without. A symbol, perhaps, for the pale huddled creature thrives on symbol perhaps more than she does on the vitae she sips so rarely. And now the words exchanged chase each other through her mind, rats in a maze designed by weasels. When they have done with their running she will know her next move, and will rise tabula rosa, into whatever destiny is left her.
The Clockwork Doll: For the acrobat in her bed upstairs, the shift from sleep to consciousness was instantaneous and absolute. The indiglo numbers of her bedside clock said it had been several hours since she'd crawled between the sheets, and the feel of pillow creases etched into her cheek confirmed it. She brought no dreams back with her, and for that she was grateful.
The Clockwork Doll She gave herself a full minute by the light of the clock to stare at the ceiling and let the details of her life catch up to her. She was in her own bed, alone, and still fully dressed. Her face felt too hot and she knew with a certainty there was something she was supposed to have done and hadn't. A deep inhale of faintly bleach-scented air as she sat up was a very sudden and effective reminder.
The Clockwork Doll Even in the dark blues found the outline of the black plastic trash bag easily enough. With a soft sigh, she fumbled for the bedside lamp and squinted against the mellow spill of soft light that brought the room slowly into focus.
The Clockwork Doll Dammit. She'd slept too long, and the task left undone now pulled her from the bed to feet cringing for the chill of the floor. There would be people in the common room now— too many sets of eyes for her liking, but every hour she left the bag sitting in her room increased the chances someone like Maurice would find it. She wasn't prepared for the questions discovery would bring with it— there was too much at stake.
The Clockwork Doll Only minutes awake and moments from her bed, she crammed unwilling toes deep into the bite of her shoes and bent to catch up the bag of her bloodied clothes and towels. Even through the plastic she could smell the tang of copper and the burning harshness of bleach, scents that recalled with clarity the horror-movie scene that had been Bishop's office when she and Aoife had tracked him down. He's alive and he's safe....she reminded herself to suppress the shudder that threatened the length of her spine. Alive, safe, and just as complicated as ever...you can go check for yourself as soon as you clean up your mess...it was motivation enough to get her moving out the door, a frown digging deep when she realized it had been unlocked as she slept. She sighed and transferred the weight of the bag to her left hand, digging for the key in her back pocket with the right. An exercise in futility since she planned to be right back, but he'd told her to keep her *** locked up, and given the insanity of the past few days it seemed a good idea.
The Clockwork Doll It's just your trash and you're taking it to the dumpster. Nobody here knows what?s in the bag, so pull yourself together and be cool. She lectured herself in silence as she padded down the hallway towards the stairs, schooling her features into the very mask of casual indifference as the bag and its grisly contents bounced softly against the muscles of her calves.
Artsblood There is no need to go inside yet, no need to prowl, enough to squat cross-legged beneath the budding oaks, skin white as a toadstool, and smell the blood of the world as it learned to flow again, see the kaleidoscope of night turning, and hear the songs of things that burrow and return life to the living soil.
The Clockwork Doll Two steps down gave blues a good view of the common room and she hesitated, scanning the faces below for any sign of trouble. When none was found, she resumed her descent with restraint. She wanted a cigarette...she wanted a whole pack of cigarettes and a good long swallow of his god-awful SCOTCH. It was a little air of defiance that saw her from the bottom of the steps to the kitchen door, plastic bag dogging her every move.
Artsblood The bow finds a certain peace when it is finally drawn, the dagger as it executes it's Olympic dive into flesh, the pistol when the bullet is choked out at last. Such a consolation is hers, and she sings its accompaniment, wordless scat woven amongst the wind-songs.
Artsblood: Her nose is perceptive, and some things call to it more than others do. The odor is so ripe as to be termed a stench, but she drinks it in eagerly, whispers in her little ruined voice. "A dress rehearsal for a funeral, how fortunate and how timely."
The Clockwork Doll Breathing came easier in spite of the bleach smell when the door to the kitchen swung shut behind her. It's not like you're hiding a body. It's just clothes. Pull your sh*t together. She said none of this aloud, but growled softly to herself to punctuate the thoughts and hefted the bag in both hands. A backwards lean into the door to the alley saw her standing outside, blues peering into the dark to search out the dumpster. She'd slept too long...it was meant to be a quick nap— time enough to give Bishop some rest and herself a little room to breathe easy.
Artsblood She uncoils slowly, luxuriating in it. There are walls surrounding the alley, walls susceptible to a rat's scamper; it is easy enough for her to top one, to perch there, skinny knees high and framing her, white hands clenched upon the fence between them, flesh-poor face thrust forward like a gargoyle, such games are the salt which one uses to tolerate foods too often eaten.
The Clockwork Doll While it worked in her favor for the purpose at hand, the darkness prickled along the back of her neck and gave rise to unsettling thoughts. She had plenty of reasons to move quickly as she picked her way around puddles of unknown liquid and unidentifiable piles of trash towards the dumpster, cursing her shortness of stature when the lid leveled off with her forehead. "Goddammit." she sighed, trying her best to ignore the creeping sensation the feel of too-few eyes always brought as she did her best to leverage the heavy plastic lid out of her way.
Artsblood Her little voice, torn from her throat as always, as if she had swallowed barbed wire and choked it free. "Surely you can smell the rot in him, missy dear. I warrant that my own blood is sweeter."
The Clockwork Doll With the proper combination of force and profanity, the lid bounced back just enough to allow for a quick shove that sent the plastic bag tumbling down into the depths of the dumpster....just in time for the tortured sound of a ruined voice to freeze the blood in her veins. The lid dropped heavily behind her as she spun, dropping low to the ground on the balls of her feet like an animal in preparation for flight. "Arts.."
Artsblood She launches herself easily, skinny legs uncoiling in something akin to slow motion, and floats rather than falls to the puddled ground between the girl and the door back to the Inn. "In person, missy dear, surely you didn't believe that the prior interruption has put a period to our little consultation?"
The Clockwork Doll Oh, you stupid, stupid girl....Blues gone too-wide watched as the wintery creature cut off her connection to the safety of numbers, a brush of her hand to the emptiness of her back pocket settling lead in her stomach for the lack of his chisel. She was cut off from escape with no weapon but her wits and her voice, the latter coming softly through clenched teeth from her tight little crouch near the ground. "I hoped."
Artsblood She moves closer, easy on the balls of her feet, little to this encounter of the point and counterpoint of the evening past, she cants her head, mantis like, and gasps out the words. "And yet I have done nothing to you to deserve this antipathy, to fertilize this horror. I am at a loss, missy dear, if I cannot wash it away, must I earn it?" She is close enough to grab now, skinny arms snake quick; close enough to strike, too, if one had a weapon; she seems quite complacent about the latter.
The Clockwork Doll "Don't touch me!!" she hissed, drawing in tight upon herself though a small hand lifted to deflect the grasp of freakish digits. "What do you want, Arts?"" Blues worked quickly in the dark, searching for anything that could buy her freedom or give her protection.
Artsblood She croons out the quote, "'they fly from me who one time did me seek.'I want the truth from you, pretty miss, though perhaps the haze will not leave your eyes in a minute or an hour. I think I will offer you a short vacation, and during it, though I will touch you not, I will let you examine the Dante's levels of my personal horror, and hope to bring some perspective to your youth-jaundiced eyes?"
The Clockwork Doll Blues found nothing but litter, puddles reflecting moonlight and the way to freedom barred by her nightmare made flesh. Trapped like a trembling little creature with her back against the rusted, stinking metal of a dumpster, she listened to those polished words roll blithely from the woman's tongue and felt the spark of indignation flare to life within her core. "Say what you mean, Arts...I don't understand you."
Artsblood When it happens it is almost gentle, so swift and expertly is the girl seized and lifted. Her weight is as nothing to the pipestem arms, and though they wrap as strong as rebar they hold with a strange gentility. "You will come home with me missy dear. You will stay in my house for several days, and I will show you what I am, the worse and the worst, so you may make an informed judgment."
The Clockwork Doll No time to scream...to kick, to thrash, to bite before those arms banded her about with the unwelcome kiss of winter.....only time to think of the man behind the door of one-oh-one and a promise to return that will not be kept.
Artsblood She is not a mind reader, but she is old and has seen many things, she delivers a chaste kiss, cold at the touch of an ice cube, to the girl's forehead, and whispers, chill breath against her skin. "You will be coming back, never fear. Your mortality is not at risk here, pretty miss, only your parochialism, and perhaps your sanity."
Artsblood She does not even dignify the kidnapping with real flight, but only walks swiftly and silently thought the trees and into the night. In an oak-ringed clearing, where the pale moon picks out her face in white illumination, she smiles at Dali, letting her skimmilk feeding teeth slip free like delicately carved jewels.
Artsblood And whispers, her voice muffled by the extended teeth. "You've never even seen these, and yet your horror, imagine my sorrow, missy dear."
The Clockwork Doll Like the kiss, the words brought no comfort at all, just a shudder to shake her hard against the woman and test the strength of those slender cold arms....but she is small, and it is dark, and those teeth glitter so brightly in the moonlight.
Artsblood The bag left in the trash is the only sign left behind, and the pale woman croons to her captive, like a mother to a colicky child, as the night grows colder and darker around them,
Artsblood The trees thinned out as they reached the abandoned shotgun motel, its parking lot cracked and blacktop sprouting weeds like a wino's haircut. It was once called The Outpost Motel, but enough lights had failed to leave only "O pos Motel" blinking. Call it Toreador humor. Still crooning, the pale woman slips into one room, her burden easily carried, and through a connecting door into another, far more secure, where she actually lives. There is little there but a mattress and sheets and a kitchenette with merlot and a sugar bowl holding pride of place on the counter.
Artsblood She settles Dahlia on a pillow in the corner of the room, chains from the wall hold shackles, which she snugs on with an apologetic smile. "A former lover," she simpers, "I never thought I'd use them again."
Clockwork Dahlia 2:37 am She'd struggled...hard as she could against the bonds of winter-white arms until the reality of her situation set in. Like the doll whose spring had come unwound, she settled broken against the cold strength of her captor. "Please don't kill me...please don't kill me..." her mantra, her plea, whispered over and over again to the trees they pass and the burned-out letters of the motel sign.
She'd held the smallest hope that someone might see...might take notice of a dark little woman pressed hard in the arms of a monster, drifting through the night, but it melted from her and renewed her struggles when the door closed on freedom behind them. Just as well, those manacles....she was tensed and trembling, blues wide and searching for their opportunity as she strained against them to the sound of rattling metal. "Please.." she was not above begging, "...let me go, Arts."
Artsblood The pale woman smiles, thin lips twisted in regret, and brushes the dark hair softly away from where its linger might tickle or irritate. "I will, missy dear, I promise you that. You are safer here by far than in your own sweet bed. But you have things to learn. She withdraws her hands, and stares at the girl briefly, her face too thin, but vulnerable and feminine, and the great eyes pools of need. And then, as if a switch were thrown, the killing teeth are back and her face is drawn into a horror of cat fury, a face that would tear the throat from the very world just to be the one to do so.
And as quickly, she is a skinny girl again, awkwardly crossing her legs in front of her captive. Her head tipped in question. "Which is me, missy love, are they both' Which had you seen before you looked on me with disgust'
Clockwork Dahlia She twists away from the dance of those fingers in her hair, shuddering as they pollute the memory of strong, masculine hands patiently working the knots and tangles from section after section. Bishop...why did you send me away' Teeth set hard on the nearly-healed split in her lower lip, piercing it anew and giving rise to a single drop of blood that glistens vividly on twisted cherry-ripe curves. Don't look at her...don't look in her eyes....but those teeth will not be denied. Perhaps she cries out, a strangled little sound that catches in her throat and whispers out brokenly with the copper-bright smell of blood. "I don't know! What do you want me to say" The back of her head meets with the unforgiving hardness of something...a wall" a headboard, perhaps"...but will let her retreat no further from the creature seated before her. "What are you?"
Artsblood She speaks softly, not exactly with regret, neither confession nor apology, but a release nonetheless. "We are compelled not to discuss it. It is called the Masquerade, and violation of the Masq is not looked upon kindly. I do you a courtesy, missy dear, because I owe you that much. You would call me vampire. Our word is simply the kin, or kindred. I am of a clan called Toreador, we cling to our humanity like the flotsam from a shipwreck, and love the arts to the point where beauty can send us into torpor and vulnerability. Also, and completely separate from that, I am a lover of women, though not catholic in my tastes. The girl Michelle would be my lover if I allowed it. She does not move me so, though. But I need to feed as do you, and for my kind to feed on such as you is an erotic coupling. Imagine every vein and capillary becoming an erogenous zone and played upon by the heart that sings to your heart. It is all I can give her, and what she can give me. I believe she would be happy to die in the process, though it is I who hold back at that border, not she, I can assure you. Am I a monster, missy dear" Is everyone who eats a cow more monstrous than I who sip the blood of the enamored and give them pleasure beyond what I or any other could offer in a simple bedding" These are the questions we will study, you and I.
Clockwork Dahlia Hey stupid girl...those are manacles and chains. It doesn't matter how hard you pull, they aren't gonna break for you. These are her thoughts, but she twists her hands hard into the bite of metal in defiance of chains and reason alike as knees press hard to still the wild bird and its beating wings that is caged inside her chest. Futile gestures, all. She sighs and lets her shoulders drop— the tension will only serve to wear her down faster, and there is still hope she will find a way out. But for now"...she listens...faintly surprised by the explanation so freely given. The unexpected teases wild blues from their frantic searching to a wary fix on moving lips. She won't dare the depths of those eyes and what she has seen hiding there.
"Is that what you plan to do to me" Feed on me like a cow?" panic in that little voice, though she twists and shapes it, searching through her collection of voices to lend strength and defiance to her words.
Artsblood She sighs, it is a weary peristalsis through the thin length of her. " I had hoped to avoid this, but a demonstration seems to be in order." Snake quick her skinny hands snatch at Dali's chin and lift her face before her eyes can hide behind the desperate lids. The mooneyes catch her like hooks set hard and well, and the kindred will behind them overwhelms like kudzu covering an old barn. Under their imperative the girl has no choice but to adore the woman in front of her, to desire her desperately, to worship her like the most lost of adolescent lovers. Arts drives the message deep, so that it reaches every pore of the girl's skin, and then jerks her eyes away, blinking, freeing her from the enchantment. "That is what I can do, any time, to anyone. I do not. And you honestly believe I would feed on you all unwilling" What happened to the girl I held in her despair and sorrow" Is she as far from you as my monster is from me"
Clockwork Dahlia Blues have only the flash of white to warn her of those incoming hands, time enough for muscle to tense, but to absolutely no end. She looks deep into those eyes...she has no choice, and feels the world fall away around her. In those eyes she finds more beauty than she could ever find in the binding feel of silks, a longer glimpse of the divine than she has ever found in all her efforts to defy gravity. For all her fear, she has shed no tears...until now. They well in the shine of blues and rise up, spilling hot in fat droplets over the dark thicknesses of lashes, shivering brilliantly in the low light like jewels on her pale skin. No air...no reason to breathe. All that is wanted...needed....is found in those eyes. And then she blinks, and the spell is broken. The air rushes in to set fire to her lungs, setting free a shattered cry that shakes body and chains in a wild little dance.
Artsblood Sighing again, she brings the scattered blankets from her own mattress, the only other pillow, and leaves them with the girl. "The chains are long enough to allow you to sleep, missy dear. Strangely enough, I find myself glad that you are manacled, because I would fear to slip into sleep in the presence of a monster such as you." The rising sun scatters through the chinks in the boarded window, and the pale woman composes herself on the empty mattress, and falls into a sleep that leaves death with no drama.
Clockwork Dahlia All her years of training to teach her body and mind to willingly do the impossible— to ignore the inexorable laws of gravity and set aside the reasonable fear of pain or death in the pursuit of precious flight, and she can't even stop the shaking of her two small hands or calm the breath that rushes in and out in ragged, frantic gasps.
She can hear the rustle of movement, the whisper of fabric and the soft thump that settles the pillow and blankets at her side, but those eyes are tightly shut, sealed against further assault and invasion by salty tears drying on dark, matted lashes. It's a natural thing, to cower from what you fear, but the instinct to draw back wars with the corruption of forced desire to twist her— body and soul, against her many forms of bondage. Her struggle leaves her skin galled by the feel of metal and her mind a tangle of residual need and desire that are not her own.
She flinches anew at the sound of a voice that once brought comfort. Loathsome though it is to her now, it orients her to the change in the woman's position and brings the smallest measure of relief for the distance that separates them. When Arts sleeps, it is with an imperative the little acrobat now understands. It will be hours before she wakes— hours Dali will spend alone with the knowledge that by her own design and reckless stupidity not a soul knows the danger she is in or where to find her.
This is all your fault. You know that, don't you? You invited a vampire into your bed'did you really think this would end well"
It's a bitter, heartsick little laugh that breaks the thin crust of blood on her lower lip and starts the flow from the split there anew, but she welcomes the metallic taste— proof of life she folds into her mouth with the swipe of an angry tongue.
She has plenty of time now to survey her prison when blues peel reluctantly open — the tiny slices of sunlight that brave the wrath of boards at the windows say so. With a broken sigh as the stability of rhythmic breath returns, she loosens the rigor of legs pressed to her chest and lets a slippered foot slide out to find comfort in the light and heat. It's just a tiny stripe of sun, a golden thread against the black fabric of her shoe, but it is sacred and clean and seeps in slowly to ease the chill in her bones and burn away a little more of the evil she feels inside her.
"R'ddu m"r!" she snarls, just to hear the sound of her voice".to know she can still speak. Shocking words taken out of context, and words she'd grown too fond of lately— but for all their perversity, they remind her of Bishop. This thought and the little kiss of sun with the heat it radiates gives her a moment of reckless hope and prompts a tantrum, of sorts. She throws herself against the chains, arching her body ferociously and straining hard with the weight of her body away from the wall until the bite of metal grating around her tender wrists and the futility of the gesture makes her stop.
Wrong time, wrong place for that kind of talk, but good pronunciation. Bishop would approve.
And now it's a bitter, despairing little thought' yeah, he might approve, but he's not here. And she's not there, fumbling her way through a minefield of awkwardness and tension just for the chance to be near him in that *** room at Jody's. She all but gave him her word she'd help him home today"home to a place where her help isn't needed and where she's not welcome because the ghost that haunts him won't approve. The man had been quick to judge. What would he make of her absence"
Defeated, she throws herself hard into the wall by a shoulder, slumping down slowly with the clatter and jangle of chains into a boneless tangle of pale limbs, twisted metal and too much hair, surrendering to the truth that she is well and truly *** in whatever language she used.
She sighs, a long and drawn-out growling sound that takes the very last of the air from her lungs as she considers how many times he's tried to convince her in one way or another they're a bad idea. Maybe he's right. Maybe he's just another set of hungry mooneyes waiting to swallow her whole for the darkness of her hair and the blue of her eyes. Maybe she's just the little blank slate upon which he can re-write the history of his mistakes. And maybe none of it matters, because he's chained to his past just as surely as she's chained to the wall, and neither of them can save the other for the chance to find out for sure. When the air rushes in to fill the emptiness in her lungs, it tastes stale and burns the whole way down.
Are you crazy yet, stupid girl" That's what she wants, you know" why she chained you up like her own little pet. She's going to keep you here and play with you like a toy until you break, and there's nothing you can do about it.
"I'm not a toy." It's a quiet, childish counter to her own thoughts, huffed out with a breath that stirs the prison-bar fringe of tickling hair from her face, but it feels good. She feels the familiar dig of a crease working its way into her brow and tests the feel of the words again as she lifts her head. "I'm not a toy." What does she have to lose" Control of her own thoughts and feelings, her sanity, her life" Arts has proven she can take them away at any time, but all of these things she has for now, and she will use them.
With a suddenness that defies reason and precludes thought, she twists her hands hard into her chains again as though they were the whispering kiss of her beloved silks, this time coiling them around her wrists with purpose until the tension in them lifts her body up. She doesn't care about the rough edges that rub her skin raw, just throws herself into their binding strength and adds the pain they bring to her voice when she pours out her wrath on the sleeping woman.
"Do you hear me, Arts" I"M NOT YOUR GODDAMN F*CKING TOY!" There is venom in her voice when she lashes out with all the frustration and fear, uncertainty and anger that's been building in her for weeks. But it's not enough to scream her rage at that silent, sleeping form when it's the whole of her person that's been subdued. She strains against the strength of the chains to reach for something".anything". the pillow at her side, snarling in mindless fury when it eludes hands-turned-claws. So she kicks"all the force and power in those sculpted-muscle legs whipping the blankets into chaos and sending the pillow ducking for cover beneath the bed.
When there is nothing left to kick or throw and no air left in her lungs to scream, she goes silent, panting and shaking with the wrath of a wild creature caged, feeling for the first time the heat and damp spill of fiery tears scorching the pale skin of her cheeks.
Save it. You've got a long day ahead of you. Pull your *** together and rest.
Her fury brought to heel, she lets the coiling wrap of chains slither free from bruised arms with imprints that will linger and bloom in shades of blue and purple as she sinks slowly to a crouch with her back against the wall. There is fire in the depths of blues that burn down the line of an icy back, narrowed and dangerous as the shards of sunlight slowly lengthen and creep their way across the floor.
Artsblood She wakes like a thrown switch, as if the lost hours were nothing, as if she didn't dream. A small moue of distaste warps her almost pretty face (but so thin, too thin) at the scent of dried blood. Rising with the grace of a sapling standing after a storm, the pale thing pads into the kitchen, pours wine and water. It is all that there is save sugar. Soft footed again, she returns and folds herself (and surely the athlete must admire that grace, however suspicious of it she must also be).
"I have wine and water. The latter might soothe your wrists, missy. You should have slept, but I will allow you that when you wish, and perhaps fetch salve and a more fulfilling sup. Before we continue, might I be allowed to sum up the lessons thus far?"
Artsblood "I am strong beyond your anticipation, I believe; and my eyes can steal away the will as easily as a wolf might make off with an unattended babe. And yet I do not take my food by force or by manipulation of consciousness, but only when offered freely. Is there perhaps a lesson there" What powers do you have, and do you always disdain them when they might help you get what you wish' I don't know how to make this much clearer, and I know you don't wish to frustrate me. Perhaps you wish to taste the sensual ecstasy of the feeding to know if I lie about that and everything else? Surely you must have wondered about that, the Santa Claus that might be real."
She sips the wine, and pushes both glasses within reach, settling down on the formidable springs of her skinny, folded legs.
Clockwork Dahlia Silent...almost stoic, the little acrobat rests with her back against the wall, the same position she has held as the daylight faded into darkness. Blues fix hard on the planes of that too-thin face and eventually the wine-kissed lips, but are careful to avoid the eyes at all costs. She keeps her silence and her stillness like weapons at the ready, and behind the brilliance of blues the rightly-named monster slowly begins to awaken. "Let me go." It is the proper way to begin, for if her request is honored"...nothing more need follow.
Artsblood She smiles, thin lipped but wide, and the mooneyes bathed with gentleness in the poor light.
Artsblood "Of course I will, missy dear. What possible use could I have for you like this for more than the briefest interlude" But first I am attempting to reason with you, in the only way you have decided to allow me. Shall I bring a mirror" Try to look beyond your perfectly rational fear and your surely deserved anger to the events that brought us to this little summit. I grow exasperated that I have not been able to clarify the issue yet!
Clockwork Dahlia "And I grow exasperated with these goddamn f*cking chains." She's promised Bishop she'd never do it again—- call upon the rasp of his voice and shape it to flow from her lips, but it's a promise she breaks in a moment of need, wearing the uncanny affectation of his voice like armor when she speaks. "You want to talk to me...make me see your side of things, this sure as f*ck ain't the way to do it." She lurches then, thrusting her arms out wide to the sides to bare the hateful marks wrap around pale skin.
Artsblood The change of voice might have amused her, but the obtuseness that it hides only moves her to anger. She leans forward, quicker than a striking snake, the feeding teeth slipping free with a tiny wet noise, the brown eyes wide and deep as pits into which one might fall forever, her ruined little voice choked with fury.
Artsblood "Do you really not see or are you so afraid of looking within that you would tear your own eyes out first' Let me state it plainly, missy dear," and there is venom in the term, "this is not about your kisses or the purported pleasures of your agile little form. I was kind to you. And with no reason you turned from that to look on me with disgust and horror, for an act that I was all but begged to do, for an act that I used none of my strength or will to force, for an act for which I was more blameless than you for the most innocent of your adolescent kisses. Is there clarity now, does the light shine through' Because if it does not then perhaps all of my efforts at abstinence have been a sham, a self delusion, and perhaps I should abandon my sanctimonious abstention and be a monster worthy of your disgust, one to put to shame the horror that peers at me from behind your pretty eyes."
Clockwork Dahlia She was ready this time...as ready as one could be against a creature that moved so quickly. Blues eclipsed in the hard press of lashes, the furrow in her brow digging deep as her face twisted with the exertion. She can feel the chill of that too-pale flesh even from a distance, though the words roll over her hot and angry. She listens, for all that her eyes will not open. She keeps her tight form against the strength of the wall, her pitiful safe harbor against the breaking storm of Artsblood's wrath. When the moment of quiet comes, she finds herself curiously ready. It is her own voice that answers, low, though strained by the rapid beating of her heart and the air that cannot fill her lungs quite fast enough. "Yes...you were kind to me...and I used you. I've admitted that. I'm not proud of what I did there, Arts." Conscience wars with the monster coiled behind blues, and conscience wins out, though reluctantly. Lashes break apart slowly as blues open to the woman before her. She will not meet her eyes, but a point just beyond that ruined dandelion hair will do for now. She takes a deep breath and wills the shaking of her hands to cease before the rattle of chains gives her away. "...I didn't ask questions I should have because I didn't want to know what you were— I didn't care who or what you were, just that I wasn't alone anymore, and you were right.....for that, I am a monster."
Artsblood She leans back, the trademark mantid cant of her head, the razorslash of her mouth curved weak with remorse. "So close, little miss, you are so close to it, but you still don't see it perfectly. Rest your mind. I will not harm you. I will not rape your will. I will not force you to taste the ecstasy beyond belief when every capillary is penetrated as if by a gentle and patient lover. But hear me once more. It is not that you did not dare learn what I was before, it was what you did when the knowledge was forced upon you. I do not deserve that disgust, that fear. I charge you with using your own penknife weapons more cruelly that I use the broadswords you condemn me for. That is it. No more and no less. I ask not for your love or your friendship or your forgiveness. I only want to see you look at yourself as you looked at me."
Clockwork Dahlia "It was my hands, " she speaks softly to the breath of winter that clings on the woman's lips. "...that stopped the bleeding of that woman's neck." Her fingers twitch, a soft flex in memory of the deed. "I knelt on that porch with a man I barely knew and together we tried to fix the damage that you caused. That woman was crazy, Arts. She may have begged you on her knees to do what you did, but you can't tell me she was in her right mind to ask." She pauses, folds the split curve of her lip into her mouth to wet it with the anxious roll of her tongue before she continues, her voice controlled and low, but with an edge like the finest of knives. "You want me to compare myself, my actions to yours....but I say this— you kidnapped me. You chained me to a wall and you forced yourself inside my mind. I used you...that's true. But at least you had the choice to walk away, Arts." It's a gradual shift, but the line of her back straightens against the wall, her chin lifting slowly until wary blues dare to fix on mooneyes and glare out their defiance.
Artsblood She sighs, and it shakes her skinny form like a fever. She rocks her dandelion head from side to side, and when she speaks there is a deadness to her voice that wasn't there before, the flatness after the pulse surrenders, the lack of intonation that strips a poem of its song. "Delusion, dances, masks, and rationalizations. There is your answer, I fear. I expected too much, once again. So here my little judge and jury, here is your choice..." One, two, skinny arms flash out, there is a brief sensation of cold and the rat-scream of tortured metal, and the manacles lie broken. The pale creature stands, turns, and composes herself on the mattress again, her back to her former captive. "The doors will open from the inside. Whatever happens from here is yours to own. I wish you good fortune with that." Drawing her knees up to her pitiful breasts, the white woman lies still.
Clockwork Dahlia She flinches when those hands dance near, though to her credit, the gesture is small. A tightening of that soft jaw, the subtle turn of her head and the tight flex of her fingers into a ball— just the way he showed her for a punch she'll never throw. Arts is already settling herself on the bed with that broken form of grace when the acrobat feels the weight of chains lifted. She lingers in her crouch, wary and guarded...hands wringing the galled flesh of her wrists as she studies the pale form in silence. When she rises, it is a slow unfolding that gives over-taxed muscles the chance to adjust and remember their place in an upright world. "How old are you, Arts." Her voice is soft..on the move...coming from the direction of the doorway where she stands with a hand rested on the knob.
Artsblood Her fists are against her mouth, her ruined voice muffled. "They always want to know that, don't they' Not as old as the blood within me, little miss. I am in some ways its chalice and not its mistress. In your years I would only be a lass in her 60s from my coal town roots, but the blood that I carry counts centuries as I might decades. A writer once said that humans were things that water invented to help it get around. It is an image that rings true to me. So now you know that secret as well. But surely it would have no relevance were I to say 16 or 1600, would it'
Clockwork Dahlia "No." she answers, the fire and rage bled out of that small voice to leave weariness and perhaps a note of quiet regret. "But in either case you've been around long enough to know you can't force people to accept you." Her fingers work at the handle to the door, testing it...but she does not open it yet. It is not an insult, but an act of faith when she gives the small and vulnerable curve of her back to the pale creature curled up on the mattress. "I am sorry for the way I used you, Arts....but you can't make me be alright with things you've done." There is a long moment of silence, and then the soft click of the door handle followed by the whisper of denim and the brush of leather soled shoes as the little acrobat takes her leave.
Artsblood The door once closed will not open again from without. A symbol, perhaps, for the pale huddled creature thrives on symbol perhaps more than she does on the vitae she sips so rarely. And now the words exchanged chase each other through her mind, rats in a maze designed by weasels. When they have done with their running she will know her next move, and will rise tabula rosa, into whatever destiny is left her.