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e1dritchjackal0pe · 5 months

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The Devil's Snapping at Your Heels (Severen x F!Reader)

Summary: After being spirited away by a violent group of criminals you struggle to confront and fight off a troubling hunger. The only thing that keeps you afloat is the hope of reuniting with your family but a horrid night in Texas may prove to be the point of no return.

Notes: 17.4k words, divider @saradika

Warnings: Cannon typical violence, blood, horror. Severen being a complete ass, as per usual. The reader is NOT having a good time. Severen doesn't know how to process his feelings.

Part II - Part III

The last few days of your life have been a fever dream. A horribly twisted one at that. It feels like a part of you has disconnected since that night you were out in the middle of the desert, gulping down blood like a wild animal while a crashed car smoked behind you. It almost hasn't felt real since then, like a piece of you floated up to the heavens with the rest of all that smoke and steam and never came back down again. You figured that the shock had yet to wear off and truthfully, you didn't know if it ever would. The idea of adjusting to the new world that you've been tossed into with an abrupt violent fanfare is morbidly laughable. Not that any of them have been particularly helpful in guiding you in your apparent new place in the world. Well, apart from Caleb. He has tried in his own way to help you come to terms with it all, giving gentle words of advice and trying to nudge you into a sort of acceptance.

He had confessed that he was the most recently turned apart from yourself, older than you by about a year, and the admittance had startled you. He kills so easily on a nightly basis that you can't even fathom that he's still so new to it all. It has a heavy sort of weight grabbing your shoulders to know that they probably expected the same from you. Especially the leader of the group, Jesse. Who was already less than thrilled that you've dragged along with the rest of the family. A liability, a possible threat to their safety is what he saw you as. From the moment that Severen had removed you from his shoulder to usher you inside the back of the van, Jesse had been less than enthusiastic.

"The venom got to 'er before I could. She's comin' with us." Severen had declared. His demeanor was relaxed, almost jovial while he kept you pinned in place with his hands gripping both of your forearms, forcing you to awkwardly stand in front of the open back end of the vehicle, trying desperately not to make eye contact with the bewildered and still bloodied faces of his family. Jesse had moved to peer back at the you two from the driver's seat, mean eyes squinting like he's been told a bad joke. "Hell, boy, you better be pullin' my leg."

"As serious as a heart attack. " Severen had responded easily.

From that point on your fate had been officially sealed, nailed shut, topped off with a bloody bow and buried six feet deep. You hadn't believed Jesse when he had told you that you'd never die. That you'd live to see the world change, watch cities rise and fall, see generations live and fade into history all while you remained ageless. Frozen in time. You would have laughed in his face if you had the balls to, but the cold glint in his eyes told you that he wasn't the one to make light of. You figured that you were right in your previous assumption that this was come sort of deranged cult, diluted into believing that they had received the gift of immortality. All for the hefty price of blood and a life. You figured he was the same as every cult leader throughout history, a sick controlling man who preyed on vulnerable, ill people and twisted them into something inhuman with the promise of heaven or eternity. And with each push of denial your mind would bring you back to that night when you had latched onto Severen's neck and drank with a drunken animalistic need. And you had made excuses in response to that. Told yourself that it was some bizarre response to the trauma. That the blood loss and concussion had driven you to act out in that strange violent way. But it felt like you were grasping at straws. Even then.

He tore through the roof like paper. The ROOF!! Your subconscious would cry out in a violent reminder, and you'd promptly slam the hypothetical door shut on that train of thought.

You had held from drinking for about three whole days, ignoring the foreign agonizing hunger that twisted inside your stomach like some sort of body snatching invader. The first night had obviously been the easiest, the pain was little more than a dull empty pit. Not all that much different from regular hunger pains. It had made you too confident in your assumption that it was all bullshit. That there wasn't anything wrong with you and you were still a normal person.

During the days before your first kill you weren't allowed to go anywhere by yourself, closely monitored at all times, and they wouldn't let you go into an establishment unless they planned on killing the people inside and burning the building down afterwards. No doubt to keep you from dashing or mouthing out a silent 'help, I've been kidnapped' to the cashiers behind the gas station counters or the motel manager supplying your room for the day. And usually it was Severen, practically latched onto you like a tick on a dog's ass. The only time you got a time to yourself was to use the bathroom which he would have to investigate first to make sure that there wasn't a window for you sneak out of. It was terrifying and humiliating. He was oddly clingy for the man that had been so persistent in trying to kill you, practically looming over you like a second shadow. Even the woman with the platinum hair (her name is Diamond back you later learned - or it's her nickname, at least) had to warn him to give you space. "Lord, Severen, if you don't back off that poor girl and let her breath for jus' a minute!"

And it was even worse when he could tell that you were hungry, perking up at the sound of your stomach growling, and you'd have to grit out a firm, "I'm not killing" through your discomfort and watch the excitement deflate from his body like a balloon. And he'd glare at you with those piercing baby blues and curse under his breath like you were the bane of his existence. It had been a push and pull with him since the first time they took you out to hunt. After spending an entire day with the seven of you huddled up inside the van with the windows blocked out with newspapers and tinfoil - an odd thing that you hadn't bothered to question - parked out in the middle of the desert just off the main road, Jesse had begun driving as soon as it was sundown. Traveling for a few hours straight, passing through town after town until he found a small building in the middle of nowhere, and you could catch glimpses of red and blue and amber neon casting through the narrow cracks between the pages plastered to the windows.

It was Jesse who let you and Severen out from the back, Diamondback leaving from the passenger seat and the other three poured out of the bench seat from the sliding door. You didn't miss the no nonsense look he shot you as he left your field of vision to go to his wife's (?) side. Severen was the first of the two of you to leap from the back, stretching his arms above his head with an exaggerated groan before he had tried to give you his hand to help you out of the van. But you eyed it warily, still grappling with how . . . kind he was being after how he had just hunted you down with a rabid sort of tenacity.

And although you wanted to ignore the gesture all together you couldn't help but slap it out of your way with a pointed glare, slipping out of the van as quickly as possible, leaving him to slam the doors shut on his own. You could hear Severen muttering behind you as you approached the front of the building, something along the lines of, "I didn' want ya to take it anyhow."

One look at the establishment immediately told you that you were at a strip club. It was an old rustic building, with a wooden front designed to mimic the false front architecture of old western stores and saloons. A massive custom neon sign was hung from the front gabled roof. And big bold red letters that spelled The Naughty Cowgirl sat above the image of a half-naked woman made from strips of gold and cerulean neon, winking from underneath a cowboy hat, and tossing a lasso that encased her scantily clad body.

Your mind was still sluggish, slow moving from the shock that had yet to leave your body, and its condition was worsened by the fact that you hadn't slept a wink since that night at the country club. Far too scared to let your eyes slip closed while you were in the back of the van, under Severen's watchful gaze. Even when he had closed his own eyes and covered them behind a pair of dark sunglasses you had the sneaking suspicion that he was still wide awake, waiting for you to make a wrong move. And to make matters worse there's been a strange sort of rumbling in the back of your head - the same one you had heard when you had drunk Severen's blood. And sometimes you swore you could actually feel it grinding in your chest, almost like a strange heartbeat.

The lack of sleep had made you admittedly a little slow moving and thinking but even in that moment you could gather why the seven of you were standing out in front of a strip club out in the middle of nowhere, with the warm desert breeze blowing like a bad omen and the low chirping of bats could be heard above, swooping through the dark in a search for food.

They were here for the same reason that they were at the diner. You had frozen stock still. Your feet might as well as been cemented to the dirt parking lot. And even when the others had begun to slink into the establishment you couldn't will yourself to move. You couldn't do this. Not now. Not so soon. Not with the horrors of last night still fresh like an open wound and the screaming echoing throughout the recesses of your mind in an endless loop.

"Now this is my kinda place." Severen grins with pure sleazy intent, tossing an arm across your shoulders and pulling you close to his side with a playful shake, effectively knocking you out of your internal panic and peering at you from over the rim if his shades. "Ya ready?"

No, you most certainly were not. But you let him lead you inside regardless, too tense to wiggle out from underneath the clutch of his arm and make a run for it. As soon as you cross the threshold you're hit with the overwhelming scent of alcohol, cigarettes and sweat and there's something else that smells damp, old and musty like an abandoned attic. It's nothing like the glamorous burlesque shows you had curiously watched with your friends, women and men dressed in diamonds and pearls. One of the first things you noticed was how lackluster and . . . depressing the atmosphere was. And empty.

The room was dimly lit, with little burst of dull red and blue mood lighting scattered along the stage and corners of the room sometimes mixing into a bright violet, and a sleazy rock song blared out of the stereo system in a way that was way too energetic for the downright lethargic mood that permeated the air.

From what you can see, there's only two patrons. An older gentleman at the bar snuffing a cigarette out onto an ash tray despite the fact that there's a no smoking sign posted behind the counter next to the cash register. And the other is a tired man who sits near the platform, watching the only dancer do her best to work with the minuscule audience that she's been left to entertain, doing a soft twirl around the pole and you could see body glitter sparkle across her skin. You notice the intrigued way she studies Jesse's group, most notably Severen and you suddenly wish you had the ability of telepathically communicate to warn her not to make the same mistake that you had. So, you settle for what you've got and try to discretely broadcast the worried warning on your face instead, but she's yet to look away from him even as she smoothly pulls herself up the pole in a move that surely would have your muscles giving out. And Severen catches her interest, giving her a grin and winking over his sunglasses even though he still has an arm around your shoulder. Disgusting.

Everyone disbands around the club, spreading out across various points and you can't help but notice how calculated it all seems. Jesse approaches the bar, settling at the point that's nearest to the door while Diamondback heads to the center of the floor with Homer in tow, who immediately sets his sights on a Dolly Parton themed pinball machine nestled in the corner of the room and the couple - Caleb and Mae - take up a table in the far back just to the left of the small stage, once again in their own little world.

You expected some sort of lead up. For them to ease into it like they had back in the diner, but you probably shouldn't have fooled yourself into thinking that you had them all figured out.

Severen's slipping away from you, walking behind the seat of the patron who faces the stage and promptly snatches up the cowboy hat on his table making sure to plop it onto the crown of his head as he walks around and enters the man's field of vision. It takes the guy a minute to realize that was indeed his hat that was stolen, looking dumbly between Severen and the empty spot next to his beer on the table a couple of times before it registers. He jumps up with an angry exclamation and goes to snatch at Severen, who leaps up onto the platform and out of his grasp with a guffawing laugh, and the woman on stage jerks back from the pole with a shocked gasp, rocking unsteadily on her stiletto heels and for a second you fear that she might actually fall over.

"They say a cowboy ain't complete without his hat, " Severen grinned with eyes full of mischief and mirth, flicking the brim up with his fingertips. " What do you think, darlin? Does it suit me?" He turns to looks at the dancer who's still frozen from shock, looking just as awkward and as out of place as you. Her mouth simply hangs open, moving wordlessly like a fish out of water. Severen looks nothing short of disappointed at her lack of response, sighing as though she was the ultimate bore. Then the owner of the hat is trying to climb after Severen, insulting him with a colorful group of expletives, and Severen chortles at the attempt, bending over at the waist and patting his knees like he's trying to call a wayward puppy. "C'mon! C'mon now, you can do it!" He taunts, taking the hat off to dangle it in front of the man.

And once the guy finally finds purchase on the edge of the platform and swings a leg over the top, Severen stands upright and kicks him dead center in the face with the sole of his boot, and a sickening crunch sounds out and he's crumbling to the ground with a thud that makes you cringe.

"Hey!" A man's voice rings out from the bar, drawing everyone's attention to his place behind the counter. "I'm going to need you to up from off that stage. " He says evenly, voice firm in a way that leaves no room for mistakes. " And then you and your friends are gonna leave unless you want to walk out of here in handcuffs." His hand is already hovering over the landline just inches from the pale plastic. A threat that may have worked on a different sort of rowdy patron, but unfortunately Jesse and his group chose this place to desecrate tonight. And with a scary sort of ease Jesse removes the pistol from his front holster, brandishing it with a horrific sort of calm and cocking back the hammer in a warning of his own. Apart from his family every other person in the club - including you - goes stock still, staring at the gun like he had the weapon trained on their head personally. Which he might as well of.

"Touch that phone there, and it'll be the last move you make," he forewarns. And as if to drive the promise in deeper, Diamondback has her knife out and Homer has his gun, absentmindedly sitting it on the glass lid of the machine while he continues to pull at the toggle, and Caleb rests his pistol out dead center on the table.

Out of your peripheral vision you can see that Severen has begun to clumsily swing around the pole, a complete juxtaposition to the strained heavy energy that suffocates the room. "Damn, I think I missed my callin' in life!"

Jesse lowers his gun, but the threat is still hanging heavy in the air, like a cleaver waiting to come down on everyone's throats. "Now, so's long as everyone keeps their hands to themselves and doesn't make any unnecessary moves you may come out of this alive. " Liar. What a complete fucking lie. The only way that any of these people were going to exit this building was through a body bag. "After all, we're here in celebration."

Severen leaps down from the platform with a heavy thump just narrowly missing the man who is still curled up on the floor, clutching his nose which is now pouring red between his fingers, and he steps over the groaning body like he's a forgotten article of laundry, carelessly dropping the hat next to his head. "You can keep it, " he quips. "It didn't fit me anyway." And he's coming back over to you, swinging an arm around your shoulder like it belongs there, pulling your back against his chest. "What do you think? You gotta pick of the litter, darlin.' "

The weight of his words had struck you deep and rattled you to your core. Sure, you knew why they were here. What it entailed. But you didn't know that they'd wait for you to be the first to make a kill. And there was that awful, otherworldly hunger creeping back up inside your gut. No where near as bad as it was the night before, but it was still there. Climbing up the edges of your mind and nestling in the pit of your stomach like a living being demanding blood, apparently triggered by something as little as the man's nosebleed. And you didn't bother acknowledging or wondering how you were able to smell the red trickling down his face in two pouring rivulets from so far away.

And they were all watching you unblinkingly. Waiting for your move with a suffocating sense of anticipation. It had made you feel like you were drowning, getting pulled under unforgiving blood tainted waves. And then the man with the hemorrhaging nose was looking up at you from his place on the floor, just as confused and afraid as you were. They were all scared. The woman quivering unsteadily on the platform, the bartender, the old man sitting at the bar gripping a freshly lit cigarette with a shaky hand. You swear you could almost smell it. The fear. A strange tart sort of scent that you could nearly taste. Bitter and almost acidic with a pleasantly sweet edge. Like crushed cranberries or dried lemon. It was too much. Twisting with the iron and warm sugar of blood. The that was streaming between the man's fingers and dropping onto the floor.

But even with Severen and all the others watching you with intent and perverse expectations, you didn't yield to the wild pain in your stomach. Not even when the group had begun to slice into the helpless patrons and the bartender. Even holding off against Severen when he gulped the dancer's blood into the hold of his mouth, cupping both hands around your face and tried to pry your jaw open by digging his thumbs into your cheeks to try and force-feed you. You had shoved yourself away from him, clenching your teeth shut so that he couldn't pour any of the sweet red liquid between your lips. All you could do was watch the blood bath unfold around you, while pained screams rung out over the deafening music, and their greedy eyes lit up in the dark and neon like animal eyes.

And they had tried to get you to feed the next night too. Dragging you inside a dingy truck stop somewhere in the middle of New Mexico for the haunting, sadistic cycle to continue. For Severen to try and get you to feed. Even going as far as to burry your face in the ragged wound torn into a semi drivers' neck, blood gushing from the jugular vein in a rich flow. And you had felt it then too. That almost painful claw at the pit of your stomach. It was almost too much that night, almost on par with the mindless hunger you felt that night in the desert when you had drunk from Severen. But you had held yourself back then too, tearing out from under Severen's grip on the back of your neck and scrambling from the bloody floor, nearly tripping over the truck drivers' body while you clumsily fumbled down the shelves in a mindless scramble, desperate to dampen the hunger in your stomach. You ignored Severen's exasperated, "what the hell are you doin'? " That followed you down the aisle. And then there was Jesse's response, who sounded tired in his own right. "Just let her figure it out for herself. You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make 'em drink."

You had torn into random bags of food in a way that was near frantic, hands slick from blood and weak with hunger. You needed to prove to them- to yourself that all of this twisted bullshit about having to drink blood was just that: Bullshit.

You shoved handfuls of the chips into your mouth, and it had tasted fine enough. Normal. Good even after nearly two whole days of having nothing to eat. But after getting about half of the mini bag down a heavy sense of nausea was rising up, soaking your bones like old oil, and then you were doubling over and upchucking the little bit that you had just scarfed down. "See! Now look at ya! Fucking throwin' up all over the floor like a sick dog!" Severen shouted from the end of the aisle. You wanted to snap at him. Tell him to shut and leave you alone, but your abdomen was too busy convulsing in a violent fit of dry heaving, like it was dead set on wringing every possible scrap of food from your gut.

You had left feeling just as bad as did before you walked in. Except now you were nearly covered head to toe in blood and the makeshift bath in the truck stop bathroom had only been able to do so much. You had snagged some touristy shirt that was hanging on the rack "Land of Enchantment" it had said. You didn't feel very enchanted when you were staring up in that dirty mirror, harshly scrubbing blood from your face with water and hand soap until your skin felt raw and stung from being touched. Red smeared across your lips from when Severen had smooshed you against that lifeless man's throat. You could still feel the heat of his skin cooling on your mouth like you had never pulled away from him at all.

The disappointment had been palpable when you had all drove away from the burning truck stop. A fire that you had contributed to. Caleb, Jesse and Diamondback had snagged a few five-gallon gas cans from inside of the store and filled them all up while Severen, Homer and Mae ransacked the shelves and freezers of the alcohol, breaking bottles and popping open cans to pour the contents all across the floor making sure douse every inch. And somewhere admits the chaos Severen had snatched your hand up, slapping a fifth of liquor into your palm and passing by you with a slap on your shoulder. "Try ta lightin' up, wouldya?" He had said. You're still not sure if the pun was intentional or not. And you had helped them pour out endless amounts of alcohol onto the floor. At that point you were just tired and desperate for the night to be done and over with, and so you had shoved bottle after bottle or wine and vodka and whiskey from their shelves, not caring if the exploding glass sliced your legs open with tiny shards.

The others came in after you, drenching the aisles and bodies with gasoline and making sure to soak the perimeter of the building before you had all gathered around the desecrated truck stop. "Homer? Would you mind doing the honors?" Jesse had asked, and then the kid was sliding open the little paper drawer of a stolen box of matches and dragging the head of a match against the strike pasted to the side of the carboard and dropping the lit stick onto a strip of gasoline. It lit instantly and the flames ate up the liquid, burning across the asphalt and setting the building alight in an instant.

You had all piled into the Winnebago and sped off before anything dangerous could catch fire and the building could blow up in your face. You watched the giant flames from the back window of the RV, rising high and licking up into the night air like some sort of hellish pyre.

And you made excuses for the nausea and sickness too. Foolishly telling yourself that you had just overwhelmed your body after going a few days without eating. It was a perfectly normal thing that happened to people all the time. But what you discovered after that definitely wasn't something that happened to normal people.

Jesse had drove for hours that night determined to put as many miles as possible between his family and that burning truck stop in the middle of nowhere. Not even when the early signs of dawn begin to saturate the edges of the horizon in pale gold and lavender. It wasn't until the sun had rose up over the low hills, just barely pushing light through the tiny slit cut into the foil and paper taped to the windshield did he pull over long enough to jostle Caleb awake from his spot next to Mae on the pull put couch so that they could switch places and he could get some shut eye, tiredly shuffling to the bed tucked in the far end of the RV where Diamondback and Homer were still sleeping.

You had hardly been able to sleep yourself. Something that has quickly become another unwelcome regularity in your life over the past few days. You tried to. Curling up in the uncomfortable seat stationed next to the blocked off window. Shifting unsteadily throughout the night and well into noon. You tried laying your head on the table in front of you, leaning yourself up against the window and even contemplated on just crashing on the floor but Severen had beat you to the punch and passed out the questionable avocado green carpet a few minutes into the journey, sprawling out like a starfish before the sun had even risen. After an hour or two of forcefully shutting your eyes and trying to will sleep to come to you, you gave up with the effort entirely. You had briefly snooped through the cabinets and found some entertainment - if you want to call a magazine about crocheting entertainment (which to a degree in was. You never would have thought about crocheting a sweater for a dead relative's urn without it) as well as water damaged bodice ripper, depicting a breathless, swooning woman in a flowing scarlet gown being pulled into the embrace of some muscled rogue. What is he supposed to be? Some sort of pirate? They are on a ship-

Suddenly Caleb was pulling over again. Something about 'fueling up.' Or at least that's what it had sounded like over the squealing of the RV's worn brakes. And then Severen was popping up from his place on the floor like a disoriented gopher, mumbling that he'd take care of it while he rose up from the floor, groaning like he was in pain. It wouldn't surprise you if he slept on a muscle wrong considering that he didn't even try to find a pillow or make a makeshift cushion with a jacket or towel. But then again, he seemed to have little consideration for his body and its limits.

You watched him curiously as he riffled through the cabinets above the pullout, hardly trying to be quiet despite the fact that Mae was sleeping directly underneath, which had prompted Caleb to whisper yell at him through gritted teeth. Something that Severen had maturely responded to with giving him the bird and waving him off before pulling out a folded plaid blanket from the overhead cabinet, shaking it out to its full length. After thumbing it between his fingers in some sort of inspection he was throwing it over his body and head like some sort of protective garb. He looked like a demented road raider from some post-apocalyptic film like Mad Max.

It admittedly took your sleep deprived brain a second to put two and two together. Realizing why he would need all the extra layers in the middle of the summer to go outside at an embarrassingly slow rate. At first you thought that all of the night traveling was a way to remain inconspicuous and to avoid law enforcement. But doubled with the obsessive need to block any and every window of every vehicle they've ever stolen you've come to the conclusion that they all seem to have some eversion to the sun itself. You've never actually seen any of them outside during the day. The night after you were kidnapped you had all parked out in the desert and slept through well until sunset and the day after that had been spent under the cover of a motel. This was the first time you'd seen any of them event attempt to step out into the light and based off of the way that Severen was slipping his hands into a pair of cowhide work gloves and securing a pair of goggles and a bandana around his face they seem to have this strange . . . phobia against it.

After he had finished fully pulling on his layers and making sure they were firmly held in place he was totting two five-gallon gas cans, full of stolen fuel from the truck stop, swinging the door open with help from Caleb who was quick to jerk it shut once Severen had stepped out into the blinding light of the midday sun.

It was fascinating almost, the way they did it all with an air of unsure nervousness. You could almost have enjoyed it, watching your captors stumble around a little bit of sunlight like a bunch of animals panicking around the beginnings of a wildfire.

Once Severen was out Caleb was quick to return to his station at the driver's seat and you resumed your reading, thankful for the distraction against the syrupy exhaustion that pulled at your limbs and the dull gnawing that began to stir inside your gut. You entertained the idea of searching through the kitchen cabinets for something to eat. You're pretty sure you had spotted a box of cereal and a pack of knockoff Oreo's in the pantry during your bored little investigation around the RV. Unfortunately, your body had different plans. A slick queasy feeling spreading over your abdomen and pouring down your throat at the thought of food. And for a moment you were worried that you might actually be sick. Saliva pooling inside of your mouth, threatening to make you retch, but luckily it was gone almost as fast as it had come.

Severen was swinging the door open again before you knew it and the only thing keeping the light from streaming into the RV was the fact that it was noon, and the sun was hanging directly in the center of the sky. He tosses the empty cans inside, letting the containers roll across the carpet and clatter against the faux wooden wall. It has Jesse yelling something out from the bedroom and Mae groaning tiredly from the couch.

"Try to do a nice thing an' everybody still has shit to say, " he scoffs, tossing the impromptu cloak from his body and tearing the gloves from his hands in a fussy way. He nearly fell over on his ass when the Winnebago lurched forward without any warning, shaking on his legs like a newborn deer and swearing when his boot caught on the discarded blanket while on his way to plop down on the opposing chair making the worn pleather creak in protest. Something tells you that Caleb may have done it on purpose. A little revenge for disturbing Mae. You can't help the faintest hint of a smile that quirks at the corners of your mouth, idly thumbing through the pages without really reading its contents. Apparently seeing you show even the barest hint of joy has Severen's hackles raising because you can feel his eyes boring holes in your forehead from across the table like you've personally scorned him. "What are you over there smiling about?"

"Nothing." You respond plainly, scanning a random page with little fascination. Only a short chapter in and the love interest had the heroine spread out in his captains' quarters - so he was a pirate - which wouldn't be surprising considering the nature of the book but based on the glimpses you had into their relationship they both seemed to have an intense dislike for each other. Wonder how they got here so quickly. Perhaps you should actually read it. You've got nothing but time after all.

"Bullshit." He scoffs. You can't help the exasperated sigh that leaves you, tucking a thumb between the pages of the book so you don't lose your place. Seriously, what was up with him this morning? Not that Severen was ever the friendliest person, even when he was pretending to be, but he seemed to be in an exceptionally irritated mood today.

"Alright, what is your problem?" You ask, not even bothering to hide the indignation bleeding into your voice. And sure, it was stupid to try and press your captor closer to the edge that he was already sitting so dangerously close to - especially one as volatile as Severen, who's moods would seesaw erratically between feral and aggressive to a concerning unhinged and carefree enthusiasm. Truly a wild card. A ticking time bomb is more accurate. But fuck it. You're tired, starving and confused. Your nerves are shot, your brain is fried and you're miles away from your home and your loved ones, and based on your luck thus far you're probably going to end up dead in a ditch somewhere regardless of if you keep your mouth shut or not.

And honestly that petty side of you kind of wants to get on his nerves.

"There ain't nuthin' wrong with me, " he snaps. Like a child who's too emotionally ignorant to communicate properly. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

"You're my problem." You spit between your teeth with your voice laced with pure venom. Your eyes meet, gazes locking together like two magnets. It almost feels like the oxygen is sucked out of the room and something heated and electric prickles at your skin. It prods at something primal in your subconscious. Some long-buried instinct that's telling you that you're in the sights of something dangerous. But you can't will yourself to look away. That crazed sort of glint is in his eyes again, pinning you down like a challenge. You can't deny the fear pinching at your chest but there's a lot of anger welling up alongside it until you don't even notice the simmering panic anymore.

Severen tilts over the tabletop with tense shoulders until he's practically draped himself across the majority of the space between you. And you don't look away once. Not even when his stare starts to become entirely too much.

"You see that bit of light there?"

The question catches you entirely off guard making you freeze in your seat while your brain catches up. You follow Severen's line of vision to your right and meet the thick gray wool sheet that had been tacked over the window, straining over the drawn blinds behind it. And at the bottom of the sheet where the corner of the window seal would be is a thin strip of muted gold glowing from underneath the fabric and weakly pouring out from the edge.

"Yeah?"

"Touch it."

It gives you pause for a second time in the span of few minutes. It's hauntingly silent apart from the gentle rattle and squeak of the RV as it shifts on its weight, jostling over the small groves and bumps in worn asphalt. You don't know why it takes you aback. Or why you're even stalling for that matter. It is an odd question, but it's also Severen. He says weird things all the time. "Why?" You ask lowly, almost whisper and your voice catches faintly in your throat.

He just smirks in that obnoxious way of his, eyebrows quirking up. "Why not? It's just a little bit of sun."

He's not wrong. But something about it feels strange. It is strange. But then again, what about Severen or this entire situation hasn't been? You lock gazes again and that challenge is still there hanging heavy in the air like a storm cloud. You move your free hand over towards the covered window, hesitating just a bit with a few scant inches between you and the light that slips out from underneath the sheet but then you're swallowing the stupid trepidation down and moving your fingers into the light. The strip is just enough to spill over your fingertips covering them in a soothing heat. Like melted butter. A fireplace on a brisk winter morning. Sparklers in the summer. It's soothing and nostalgic. There's a mocking laugh on your breath but then your skin is stinging like you've touched a hot stove. It feels like scorching grease is boiling over. You don't even have time to pull your arm away before your fingertips are smoking and tiny flames are igniting on your nails like they're birthday candles.

You jerk away from the table with a wounded cry, dropping the book to cradle your injured arm and the chair you were sitting in topples over, muffled from the carpet. Severen stands up like he wants to comfort you. Like he wasn't the one who just told you to do it.

"Stay away from me!" You shout, chest heaving while you back away from him towards the back of the RV.

"What hell's goin' on over there!?" Caleb's voice rises from the driver's seat.

Severen rolls his eyes like the question was an inconvenience for him. "Keep your eyes on the road, Caleb!" He shouts over his shoulder. He steps forwards and you're lurching back on your feet. You feel caged like the walls are too tight. You don't even think when you run, just turning sharply on your heels and bolting into the compact little bathroom down the narrow hall of the RV, sliding the wooden door shut on its track and securing the flimsy lock shut in single panicked breath. Your hand is unsteady when you twist the nob on the sink to run cold water over your fingers to soothe the horrible white-hot sting that pulses across the affected area. It wasn't some small 1st degree burn- a little inflammation. The skin of your fingers was peeling, flushed and tinder with an angry red. There was no logical explanation for this. You couldn't pull out a random excuse for this. The blood drinking, the sadism, the absolute horror that you've endured these past few days could be written away as the inhuman behavior of some crazed cult. The ramblings about immortality and the fear of the sun could all just be a reflection of their disillusioned minds. But this. This you couldn't possibly find an explanation for.

You stared down at your quivering charred fingers helplessly. You felt like you were drowning with the oxygen being squeezed from your lungs from the pressure of utter defeat. Everything feels numb around the edges and floaty like an out of body experience and you're too lost to even try to figure out where to go from here.

A knock sounds from the other side of the door and your body tenses at the sharp noise like a startled cat. "Go away!" You shout, fully expecting to hear Severen yell back at you through the barrier but instead it's a soft feminine voice that responds. "It's just me."

Mae? You unlock the door with slow, reluctant movements like you were waiting for whoever was on the other side of the door to suddenly fling themselves at you and dig their teeth in. The door moves back to reveal that it is indeed Mae of all people, watching you with a gentle sort of concern despite the tired bags that rest underneath her eyes. It surprises you considering that she hasn't made much of an effort previously to connect with you. She was never rude or untoward (other than the murder and blood drinking of course) against you but she never made it a priority to try and talk. And the fleeting interactions you've had thus far have been small, typically out of necessity like asking you to hand her a bottle of alcohol so that she could douse a corpse in the liquid or nudging you to make space while the rest of the family piles into whatever recently stolen vehicle you all had for the night. So, you aren't really sure why she's here.

Her eyes scan over the wounded bits of your hand and you see some sort of understanding cross her face. "You alright?"

No. No you're not fucking alright. You haven't been alright since you rented that car and decided to go on a joy ride through the desert. You haven't been alright since they all decided to walk into that diner and steal you away from everything you know. Your life - your family.

"Yeah . . . " You respond but it comes out raw and broken. "I'm alright."

A hush falls over the both of you. Not necessarily awkward but definitely unsure. She fiddles the belt loops of her jeans and suddenly you feel bad for having a hand in waking her up. She's obviously still tired from the night before, sleep still clinging to her eyes. You don't know why but you feel the need to say something to her. Say sorry for bothering her and keeping her awake even though she's a part of the family that has violently uprooted your life and stepped all over it.

"I'm sorr-"

"I know Severen isn't the easiest to live with, " she starts, bulldozing over whatever apology you had in store. " But he's trying in his own way-'" it takes a lot not to laugh at that. To swear or lash out and push her away from the doorway. - " I'm not gonna lie to ya and act like you don't have awful luck with him being the one to turn you and all but just know that . . . he's trying as best as he can."

It absolutely infuriates you and the knee jerk reaction is to argue. To remind her that you didn't ask to be here and to be forcefully joined into the family, but some distant part of your subconscious tells you that you'd be wasting your breath. That it would be a lost cause met on deaf ears, so you don't bother objecting at all.

"What does that mean? 'Turned'?"

"That's really a question for him. Not me."

And that tiny hope for answers was snuffed out as quickly as it had lit. Like hell you'd go to Severen of all people for answers- you'd rather be dead. And almost like she had sensed your discomfort she switched gears in the conversation and the two of you had smooshed yourselves into the tight space of the bathroom with you perched on the toilette and Mae standing inside the shower. It was there that she had revealed that she was turned in the height of the 1960's (something that you still couldn't wrap your head around) when Homer had stumbled upon her, and longing for some form of a companionship had bit into her. She thought that he was a lost kid looking for his mother. She only wanted to help. She told you that for a while she had wanted to be a model featuring in fashion magazines like Vogue back when she was a young girl on her on her father's ranch, to go and visit foreign countries and their cultures.

And in turn you shared bits about your own life. It spilt out of you like some sort of mindless word vomit, probably because your mind was happy to take some sort of reprieve from the constant stress and gore that it had been experiencing these past few days. So, you had told her about how you grew up in a middleclass family in the suburbs of a sleepy east coast town, how you met your fiancé- ex fiancé- through one of your friends in college, and all the expensive clothes and trips to places like Paris and Milan.

You spoke for hours up until Jesse had woken up again and was switching places with Caleb to drive the RV and he had driven well into the night just as he had previously. He didn't stop until he came across a small rest stop and you had climbed on top of the camper in a pathetic attempt to get some space. But then of course, like an unwanted shadow one of them was climbing up after you. And the faint scent of cheap cologne and tobacco carried in on the wind told you it was Caleb before he even spoke. "He's not like us," he started gently, cutting over the gentle singing of crickets and the low warm breeze. And even though he didn't bother mentioning a name it didn't take a genius to figure out who he was referring to. You don't even bother trying to hide the annoyance on your face. You had just heard this from Mae, you didn't need it from Caleb too. "From what I've been able to gather, he didn't have much before all this. Before Jesse. . . Don't get me wrong. I'm not making excuses- he's a mean dumb sonuvabitch, but I don't think he can relate to people like us. People who had something before this."

That gave you some pause making you look away from the wide endless dark of the desert and look to him. You admittedly never thought much about that. Wondered what all their lives were like before they became whatever it is that they are, but the sudden epiphany is startling.

"I don't understand." You shift on your knees to properly face him, taking care not to nudge your wounded fingers on your thighs. " If you have a family, why are you still here? Why didn't you try to run?'

"I did in the beginning. I fought like you are now, " he admitted while watching the rest of the group down below and smiling in a wistful, dopey sort of way, no doubt watching Mae who was laughing at some joke that Diamondback had uttered. But you couldn't help spot Severen who was grinning like the bastard he is and holding his arm high up in the air, dangling a comic book above his head and taunting an angry Homer who was jumping up and down in fruitless attempts to snatch it from him. He really couldn't help himself, could he? He just has to be an asshole at all times. "But I couldn't go back to them the way I am now. They wouldn't understand and I wouldn't survive. Plus, I've got Mae and she's more than enough for me."

He had left when the headlights of some unfortunate car had peeked over the horizon, tossing a warning your way before he sat up and climbed down the ladder to join Mae down on the ground. A warning not to ignore the hunger. That you'd come to regret it. But it's what he said before that really got you. How his family wouldn't understand. It felt like a rug you didn't realize you were standing on had been pulled out from under your feet and left you sprawled out on the floor. Even if you do escape somehow and make it back to your family, would it be fair to drag them into this? To dump you . . . condition on them and just expect them to pick up the pieces and deal with it. But before you can expand on that thought the car is pulling into the gravel rest stop and a group of young men are pouring out of the vehicle. Jesse had approached them under the guise that the RV had broken down and left you stranded, and the group had been slaughtered and devoured before they could even fully grasp what was happening. But you didn't partake and eat regardless of the warning that Caleb had given you earlier. Then they had dragged their lifeless bodies inside the RV and lit it up. Jesse had found the car keys in the front pocket of one of the boys and then you were all traveling down the road again in a stolen station wagon, and he kept driving until you passed by a large sign that emerged from the dark exclaiming, 'Welcome to Texas!" And he didn't stop until came across a motel a few hours into the trip, pulling in just before the faint lavender hue of dawn peeked over the horizon.

You were the first one out of the car this time around, slipping past Jesse when he unlocked the door and immediately heading for the bathroom. You ignored the hushed mumbling and comments that trailed after you as you swung the door shut, leaving them to figure out their sleeping spots for the day amongst themselves. You only popped your head out long enough to accept a spare pillow from Diamondback. "Don't wanna wake up with a nasty crick in your neck, " she said while passing you the cushion with a gentle smile. It was odd, the motherly energy that she often had despite carrying herself with such confidence and danger. It was almost confusing at times, the nurturing sort of approach she would take when talking to you - well everyone for that matter. If Jesse was the patriarch and leader of the group, then Diamondback was no doubt the matriarch. Often dotting on everyone despite her tough demeanor. It's something you could have appreciated if the circumstances were different, but you accept the pillow with a smile regardless.

Then you were back to yourself, curling up in the old bathtub with questionable ring circling around the circumference of the acrylic. You tried your best not to think about it and for the first time in days you let yourself think of your family. You had been too scared to let yourself do it in front of them. The last thing you wanted to do was break down into a sobbing mess. To show them that sort of vulnerability. But now that you were finally alone you were helpless to stop the barrage of emotions. Surely the authorities have discovered what's left of the diner. The blackened charred bones sitting in the desert like the remains of some slaughtered animal.

They must have found your rental car too. Well . . . what was left. Severen had twisted up an old shirt he had found lying discarded on the floor of the van and stuffed it into the fuel tank with a remaining strip dangling from the opening and lit it on fire.

And now it was just like the diner, and the strip club, and probably millions of other places before it. Blackened remains in the middle of nowhere.

A heavy void burrows deep in your chest. Hopelessness.

A few tears manage to slip free now freely pouring down your cheeks. Regardless, on if they're able to tie you to the remains of the rental car, your family must be looking for you. They had to have noticed that you're gone by now. They must have alerted the police, filled out a missing person report by now. But what if they think you're dead? A cold voice croons pitifully from the back of your mind. What if they think your dead and don't even bother looking.

No, no that's not possible. Your parents would look for you, even Sam will. They won't just leave you- they wouldn't.

You wipe tears from your eyes, hissing at the sting of pain that flares across the damaged nerves of your fingertips. You stare down at your hand like it's a foreign thing. Some parasite attached to your body. The skin is marred and inflamed but the damage is much less pronounced than it was before. How could you forget. . . You aren't really you anymore. You aren't sure what you are exactly, but you do know that it's something that burns in the sun and kills to survive. And then there was that comment that Jesse had told with you in the beginning. "Play your cards right and you won't ever die. Decades will pass and times will change, but you'll still be here lookin' just as you do now."

Could you even return to your family now like this? Would they understand? What if your hunger got the best of you and you accidentally -

No. You're not going to think of that. Not right now.

And with an ironic sort of timing the sharp pain in your gut comes alive, clawing deep inside of you. The pain is so shocking that you nearly cry out. The hunger has been in a steady incline the more that you've tried to ignore it, steadily growing harsher with each day. But this is awful. A great jump from the throbbing cramps that had riddled your body. You do your best to ignore it for the next couple of hours. Starring at a cobweb in the corner of the ceiling and trying to find shapes in the water stains bleeding through the wallpaper behind the mirror and toilette. The only reprieve is when you manage to fade in and out of consciousness, just barely skimming the haze of sleep before you're ripped away by a white-hot pulse of hunger. And for a moment you honestly think that you might be dying, gasping with your head pressed against the cool acrylic and that unimaginable agony rippling through you. You aren't sure how long you stay there fading in and out of consciousness with pain blurring around the edges, but suddenly someone is shaking your shoulder and firmly calling your name before cupping your cheek with a rough hand.

Your eyes flutter open unsteadily, strangely blurred around the edges but you focus around the fog on the dark figure that looms over you, and you realize that it's Severen. There's a pinched crease between his eyebrows and for a moment you swear you can see worry flitting across his features, but it's gone just as quickly as it was there, shaping into a tired annoyance.

"You look about as fresh as a crack whore at sunrise." He observed, all tact and sensitivity as per usual. Then he's glancing down your fried fingers, glaring at them like they've personally wronged him somehow. "Ya know, that'd be healed already if you had fed?"

There it is. God, you can't do this with him right now. So, you curl in further, shifting over on your side as best as you can while in the tight confines of the tub and turning your back towards him. Maybe it was a childish move but you're well past trying to be mature.

"You know your gonna die if you don' eat, right?"

"Would that be so bad?" You reply dryly. You can hear him scoff behind you, swearing under his breath and then there's a concerning bit of silence, but you don't bother twisting around to check and see if he finally called in quits and left.

A familiar scent wafts across the air. A warm aroma, sweet and vaguely spicy with a heady tang of iron closely chasing after it. Your mouth floods with saliva at the smell and that rampaging hunger is back tenfold, sweeping through your system with an unforgiving sting and ache. You're propping yourself up with your good hand before you can even think, blindly chasing after the smell. As soon as you turn around, shoes squeaking against the tub you see Severen with his arm raised to his mouth with his teeth sinking into the skin. A gorgeous red streams down and drops onto the pale floor from the abundant flow of it. There's that mindless urge telling you to lunge forward and take. To drink up like a glutton and welcome the inebriating warmth on your tongue. You want it and it scares you. You can feel yourself leaning forward in some sort of horrid kneejerk reaction, body running on autopilot to get to the origin of the hauntingly inebriating scent. Smoke and spice and honey that nearly has your mind going blank and hollow. You catch yourself at the last minute, gripping the rim of the tub so tightly that your knuckles ache and you're so zoned in on the blood that you don't even feel the way that your damaged nerves sing under the pressure of their grasp on the acrylic. You catch yourself last second, pulling away with a gasp like you've been jabbed. "What are you doing?" You hiss brokenly and you aren't sure if the question is for him or yourself.

He finally removes his teeth from his arm, and you practically have to tear your eyes away from watching the blood gush from the wound. "Lettin' you drink." He replied. "It should be enough to tie you over until you grow the balls to finally hunt."

"I'm not drinking that."

"You liked it last time!"

Anger - or maybe its embarrassment- prickles at your skin. You weren't in your right mind then. You were panicked and disoriented. You just had your throat torn and crashed your car in the span of a few minutes. So, you weren't exactly in your right mind. "I am not drinking that." Your tone is firm and final even though you're still eyeing the blood pouring from his arm with poorly concealed hunger, like a dog staring down a bone. And as if to spite you a wounded growl rips from your stomach accompanied by the horrid claws of hunger. You wince despite trying your best to hide it but it slips through regardless.

Frustration is burning in those dark baby blues and his body is coiling like a snake ready to strike. Like he's contemplating on whether or not he should try and snatch you and try to force feed you again. Your own body is tensing up, ready to try and scramble up from the bath if you have to, but to your surprise he's rising up from his crouched position next to the tub and heading for the door. "I can't stand bein' here a second longer with this pity party bullshit!" He openly seethes, jerking the door open. "You two are about as entertainin' as watching paint dry." Two? Who all left? Probably the couples. They've all most likely been pretty eager to get some alone time after so many nights on the road. That means that it must be dark already. Had you really spent that much time in here?

You think that you can hear the muffled sound of the TV playing through the wall, the muted sound of a dramatic score and the abrupt booms of artillery fire and planes flying. "You better keep an eye on her while I'm gone, Homer. -" Ah, so it was the kid then (if he's even really a kid at all) -"I mean it! If she so much as breathes wron-"

"Yeah, yeah - I got it. " Comes his annoyed response. "Go bother someone who cares."

You're pretty sure you can hear Severen snap at him, something along the lines of 'watch your mouth you little shit.' And then a second later you hear the loud bang of a door slamming shut with no regards for the neighboring people staying in the motel. God, it's like being held captive by a teenaged girl.

The next few moments are silent apart from the swelling climatic violins and the distressed shouting projecting from the television speakers. But then there were strained puffs of air sounding across the room like a wounded animal panting. Your hazy brain struggles to find its source and you scan the space with tired eyes, looking over from the water-stained spout of the bathtub and all the way over to the toilette that is a strange yellow hue, like old, dyed teeth. It's then that you realize that it's coming from you. You're the one lying over the rim of tub with your wounded fingers dangling over the floor, wheezing out strained labored breaths, pulling in that smoky sweet scent into the cradle of your lungs. Severen? Is he back already?

But you don't see or hear him yet. Then your gnarled fingertips brush over something damp and warm on the floor prompting you squint down at the tiles. A couple of crimson drops speckle the cold ceramic, gleaming under the fluorescents. That's right, he had bleed on the floor when he tried to feed you again. A distant part of you wants to clean it up. You could probably wad up a bit of toilette paper and wipe it up, but you make no effort to move from your position. You remain fixed to your spot, staring down at the rich red like it's an oasis in the desert after stumbling along lost without a drop to drink in days. And you suppose that it is an oasis of sorts.

You don't even think when you smear some onto your mangled fingertips, raising your hand up to admire it in the light. Turning your shaking hand this way and that to examine the deep hue with a morbid sort of curiosity. Then a troubling urge is rising up inside of you to lick it up from your fingers like some sort of thoughtless creature. You tear away from your own hand, hastily wiping it clean on your shirt. And as if to punish you a debilitating heat wracks over your body, seizing your muscles to tightly that it forces a cry from your lungs, and you collapse against the cool tiled wall and for a moment the world spins in a nauseating way and goes mute like a wave has crashed over you and pulled you under.

Suddenly Homer is looming in the threshold, grumbling quietly but the complaint trails off when he registers your state. "Shit, you look really bad."

And you must look as bad as you feel because you can't think of a single time since you've known Homer that you've seen him look so worried. But you don't have the energy to come back with a sarcastic retort, preoccupied with the painful quivers that possess your body and the aching hunger endlessly piercing your gut. A pained groan slips out between your gritted teeth. "I'll go find Severen. He can't be far!" Then he's spinning on his heels and running out of the motel room, with a hasty "just hang on!" thrown behind him before the door slams shut for a second time that night.

You feel drunk almost, except its completely devoid of the euphoria that often comes with drinking. Time slows down to a crawl, dripping through your hazy consciousness like molasses before completely vanishing all together. It's abrupt when you come to, standing outside a McDonald's from a sidewalk, staring at a pair of clueless people seated next to the window entirely lost in their conversation and laughing between bites of food. You swear you can see their veins pulsing steadily underneath the skin of their throats.

It's overwhelming, the sudden barrage of stimulus that floods all of your senses at once. The air is damp with the scent of recent rain. The otherwise comforting smell twisting with an amalgamation of other aromas: The pungent sting of car exhaust fumes, cologne, laundry detergent, the putrid nip of garbage nestling in your nostrils so strong that you can almost taste it all. There are the near deafening sounds of cars honking and cruising down the asphalt roads, people chatting and laughing into the night despite the fact that the street that you're on is shockingly empty and somewhere in the distance the alarm of an ambulance howls down a distant part of the town in a warbled cry.

It's all too much at once. How did you even get here? You twist around on your feet, the soles of your shoes scuffing against the damp concrete when you dazedly try to orient yourself. You don't recognize a single thing. Not a street sign or building sticks out to you. Not that you expected to. You do know that the motel is near the outskirts of the town but that doesn't tell you which direction it's in. You don't even know what time it is. How far off dawn may be. And for the first time in years, you're actually dreading the sunrise. You haven't felt this concerned about outrunning the sun in years, not since your adolescence when you used to sneak out of your house through your bedroom window and pile into strange cars with your friends to go and make appearances at wild house parties that you had no business being at. But the sort of urgency and fear that you feel now greatly eclipses whatever scolding from your mother that you used to dread. There was actual danger here. The damaged nerves in your fingers flare up again like some sort of twisted reminder of how horrible the sun can be, and it does nothing to quell your concern.

The next few minutes are a cloudy haze as you weakly trek forward down the street in the hopes that something sticks out to you even though you know nothing will. And you keep walking aimlessly even though your brain is telling you to go find a business that's still open and ask for directions. But you keep walking with the ache in your gut pulsating painfully. Your focus is blurred around the edges, and you can see stars and spots dancing in your peripheral vision like you might faint.

A car speeds past you, dousing everything bellow your knees with a rainwater that had collected against the edge of the sidewalk. It's enough to jolt you out of the fog that had collected in your head, parting it enough for you to take in your surrounding once more. The street is empty and lonely. Lined with the darkened windows of closed buildings. Up ahead the taillights of the car that had sprayed you with water pierce the dark before turning the corner and vanishing. But underneath one of the streetlamps is a defaced payphone with the light cascading around it like some sort of beacon. You could sob if you had the energy to, stumbling forward on weak legs until you're lifting the cold dark plastic from its cradle and raising it to your ear to welcome the sound of the dull one note dial tone. Maybe you could finally call your parents or the police. Let them know that you're still alive after all of this time. You search all of your pockets, clumsy and fraught, waiting to feel the cool alloy of a quarter against your fingers but all of your pockets come up empty and you can feel a broken sob catching in your throat.

You knock your head up against the metal edge of the phones protective encasing, not caring how it painfully digs into your skin. You don't let go of the phone despite the defeat coursing through you, holding onto it like it's a lifeline. It's then you register the red streaks pouring down your forearm from underneath your sleeve. You drop the phone, letting it dangle from its cord still humming in that monotone drone so you can tear back your sleeve with your raw fingers. Your choke around your weak gasp as the sight of the gnarled row that disfigures your arm. Made by teeth.

You reach up to wipe at the corner of your mouth and when your fingers come back to your scope of vision they're stained and damp with blood.

Did you bite yourself?

The thought nearly sends you spiraling. A heavy sob wracking through your body, competing with the painful growl that feels like its tearing your stomach. You couldn't go home. Not like this. What if you hurt them? What if killed them?

"Are you alright?" A voice asks hesitantly, and you nearly have to do a full spin to face its owner. It's a woman, wearing a polo shirt that looks like it's a part of a work uniform and she's peering at you with large eyes, full of trepidation but also concern and she clutches the strap of her purse like it might protect her. "Do you need help?"

You want to tell her yes, and you nearly do but something has the plea dying out in your throat. Then you smell it. Rich and warm flowing underneath her skin. Iron and sugar. It has your muscles drawing taught over your bones and your stomach seizes with a violent cramp so angry that you nearly cry out again.

You could hardly stand being near someone like this. You don't know what you'd do to her if she stepped any closer to you. You were dangerous right now. Starving and nearly mindless. You had nearly licked up Severen's blood off of your fingers like an animal. "No, no. " You shake your head and take a step back, trying to create space between you and the source of the scent. "I'm fine. Just go on with your night. I'm okay. "

"Are you sure? Do you need some change? I think I have some in my bag." She begins ruffling through her purse not paying you any mind, but you don't stop shaking your head, even though you're contemplating on taking her offer. It wouldn't hurt right? To just reach out and take some change from her hand. Then you could call the cops and tell them that you had been kidnapped and held captive by a group of murderers. That you aren't dead. But then what? What happens after that? You can't trust yourself around anyone right now. Especially not around your parents who will no doubt be on the first flight down to Texas once the police call them and tell them that their missing daughter has turned up, bleeding and shaken.

But then the image of them lying on the floor in a pool of rich crimson flashes across your mind, lifeless eyes staring up blankly.

"No, I'm fine. Really. " You press like it'll actually convince her. She must think that you're crazy or on some sort of substance, it surprises you that she's even trying to help at all.

"But you're bleeding." She presses, and successfully fishes some change from the confines of her purse and she's holding it out to you like some sort of offering. And despite all of your previous reasonings you still want to reach out and take it, even if it was just to hear their voices one last time. You can smell the strange citrusy scent that you had first picked up at the strip club. And it had been on all of the other Hooker clans' victims. Tart and just a little bit sweet. Fear. She was afraid - nervous at least- and she was still trying to help you. You had hoped that the realization would sober you up and give you some sort of clarity but if anything, it has that awful hunger clawing up to the surface again, threatening to take you back under. This time the pain actually has you falling to your weakened knees, clumsily blocking your fall with the heels of your hands.

A second later you can process her crouching down in front of you, large eyes roving over your feature with concern. And she's speaking to you, saying something but all you can focus on is the steady thrum of her heartbeat, suddenly spiking underneath her chest like a startled bird, working to carry the warm blood through her veins. You're hanging on by a thread, staring down a void that you don't think you'll have the strength to climb yourself out of and it's difficult to form a single thought around the pure terror and hunger that possesses your body.

"Please. Please just go!" You beg through an anguished cry.

The world fizzles out then behind blurs and muted sensations. At some point a scream pierces the dark, slices through the fuzz that fills your head like stuffing before dying out as quickly as it had started. It all filters in through indistinct fragments, unreliable and vague. You can feel your hands around an arm, tugging and dragging a heavy weight across damp asphalt and then gravel. Something warm and thick and wonderful floods you mouth like honey and you're gulping down gushing rivulets with an unrestrained greed. And there's a quiet muddled voice in the back of your head telling you to stop, but you don't want to. You keep drinking in the hot liquid like its water and you're stuck in a drought. And you can feel your hand curling around the back of her neck to sink your teeth in further. The pulse underneath your tongue is soft and distant, gradually growing weaker with each passing second and there's a waning warmth to her skin but it's gone clammy and the thrumming under the hold of your teeth skips in a broken staccato before dying out entirely.

You regain a sense of self while you're still drinking down the last few drops that feebly drain from her throat, unable to fight the inhuman hunger and pull away even while tears begin to cloud your vision and pour freely down your face. It isn't until the flow stops completely that you're able to tear away from the body with an anguished cry, falling back against the rough gravel and frantically crawling backwards, trying to get away, frantic to make space between you and her.

No, no, no, your mind chants like a broken record. All you do is stare ahead. You want nothing more than to look away from the body. Her body. You want to close your eyes and forget that it didn't happen. That this wasn't real. You want this to be some twisted nightmare that you'd wake up from in your apartment in New York and Sam would be there to pull you into his arms and tell you that everything was alright. That it was all just a bad dream. But she was dead. She was dead and you killed her.

Your hands are covered in blood, your own and hers, it stains your chest, dripping down your throat and mouth and suddenly your skin is too tight, feeling like it was vacuum sealed over your bones and muscle, and trapping you inside. You try to wipe your hands clean on your jeans, but there's so much that it just starts to smear, so you foolishly try to rub them across the gravel and dirt, covering them with the damp earth.

You stay there until the tears stop, staring numbly at the woman who just wanted to help. Sitting with your dirty bloodied hands in your lap while cricket's chirp in the background and that strange ominous grind is back, churning from somewhere in the far horizon. It's a noise that you've never exactly been able to place. It was unlike anything you've ever experienced and sometimes it was more of a feeling than a noise. But you hadn't heard it again since sometime around the night at the truck stop. It had gotten progressively hushed as time went on and by then it had died out completely, and now it was back steadily thrumming in your chest. But it did nothing to disquiet your panic or remorse.

And you were still staring at her lifeless body, like if you watched hard enough, she might come back alive and continue living. But that doesn't happen. Instead, you rise to your feet, and despite how unsteady they are you can't deny how much stronger you feel. That awful gnawing pain is no longer slicing at your gut like some sort of wild animal trying to break free, and a quick glance at your arms and hands confirms that the burns on your fingers and the bite mark has now healed, with the latter now barely more than a thin sliver of scare tissue that would no doubt be gone too in a few minutes. But the blood was still there. And the life you took was still gone.

You weren't sure what to do with her body. If you should leave her out for some poor soul to stumble upon. A quick glance around your surroundings told you that you had managed to find the edge of town. You had drug her to an alley between buildings to feed on her in the back lot of some sort of warehouse and a few yards up ahead was a dumpster, but you immediately shoved away that train of thought. You were not going to toss her into the garbage like some piece of trash. She didn't deserve that. She didn't deserve any of this- what you had done to her. You opted for leaving her where she was. Some unfortunate person coming into work would definitely come across her body. There's no way she wouldn't be seen. But that's for the best. At least this way she'll be found, and her family will be notified. At least that was they won't be kept all night wondering what happened to her daughter. It was a twisted way to think of it. Some form of coping probably- a way to lessen the guilt but you did it anyway.

And when you had crouched over her body to slip her eyes closed with your thumbs you tried to swallow the painful lump forming in your throat. Whispering a profuse string of 'sorry' over and over again like it would make up for it. Like it would bring her back. Like her blood wasn't staining your hands and tainting your tongue with the left-over taste of iron and fear.

When you stumbled out of the alleyway and onto the street you could see a scattered array of coins twinkling underneath the streetlamp like glitter. You had scooped them up in your hands, mostly quarters but there were a few pennies and even a nickel that had been dispersed across the asphalt in the midst of a struggle. You looked up at the payphone, a dusty blue from the years in the sun and defaced by permanent markers and stickers. You stand there for a moment with nothing but a gentle breeze and the distant barking of a dog to fill the silence. You told yourself that you weren't going to call them but now that you're standing here with her discarded change clutched in the palm of your hand with the guilt making it feel like it's burning into your skin you think you have to. You grip the handset so tightly that you can hear the plastic creak from the pressure and with a finger hovering over the second digit of the pad. It's a number you know by heart. You've dialed it a million times to check-in on them during the day, confirming the time for scheduled lunches and dinners and family get togethers. But now you were hesitating, even with the bloody coins held tightly in your hand with the edges of the individual pieces digging into your skin. The iron coating your mouth and the red staining you serving as a bitter reminder of the horrible act that had just taken place only a few moments ago. The struggle and the mindless animal violence. That you aren't quite . . . you anymore. It has you hesitating with the flat monotonous dial tone blaring in your ear like a cold punctuation, highlighting the distant out of body feeling that encapsulates you, the sense of being a stranger in your own skin.

You imagine yourself dialing the number that you've called a thousand times and you mother, or father would pick up and for a moment you wouldn't say anything - too overwhelmed to speak. And after the second "hello?" you'd finally find your voice and talk, trying to get the words out around tears and for the first time in days you'd feel happiness and relief.

But you don't do that.

Instead, you look down the phone book hanging from the payphone by a steel lanyard. The pages are warped and aged from being exposed to the elements but luckily when you pick it up and split it open the text is still coherent, not damaged enough to make the ink unintelligible. It feels so wrong to do this after your days of holding out hope and fighting and there's some far away part of you - perhaps the last shred of your humanity that tells you to stay put and wait for dawn to come and end all of the pain and suffering. But you ignore it all, still flipping through the pages, careful not to tear them in their fragile wet state. You think you can still remember the name of the motel.

Blue . . . Bluebonnet Motel?

You continue to flip idly through the book, searching for the page listing the local lodgings when two hands roughly grip you by the shoulders. You don't have time to react- to scream or lash out before you're being spun around on your feet with the slack of the lanyard pulling the telephone book from your hands and the coins go scattering across the sidewalk with sharp jingles and chimes. You lock gazes with a pair of familiar baby blue eyes, dark and stormy with a feral irritation. "Where do you think yer goin'?" But always one to shoot first and ask questions later he's stepping forward, crowding you back into the payphone with the metal digging painfully into your back. "Though you could try an' leave, huh? Tryin' to call the cops to come an' save you?"

He's not even giving you time to explain yourself, he's just barreling into one accusation after the other, quickly working himself into a fit. It has anger boiling inside you like hot water in a covered pot, threatening to rise over and spill. He's the reason why you're even here. He's the reason why she's dead and you're standing on the curb covered in blood. With heat stinging at your cheeks and gritted teeth you shove him away from you with enough force to send him stumbling back several feet. "I'm not trying to leave!" You snarl, zeroing in on him and following after him like he had done to you. " I was trying to find the number to your shitty little motel - but you'd know that if you'd just stop and listen for once instead of throwing a tantrum like a five-year-old!" You shove him again, but it does nothing to dim the hatred and distress taking over you. And the dog from some outlying neighborhood is barking again "Besides you should be happy! You finally got what you wanted!" You throw your arms out, putting the blood that stains your skin and clothes on full display, but there isn't a shred of joy or liberation in the gesture.

His eyes rake over your disheveled form, assessing you in a way that makes you feel like you're pinned underneath a microscope, but you refuse to look away. Even when a horrible grin is spreading across his face, wolfish and too cheery for the circumstances. It just burrows the knife in deeper but it's even worse when he eats up the distance between you and throws his arms around your shoulders in a crushing bear hug with a celebratory whoop. "Well, goddamn girl, I didn't know you had it in ya! Hell must've finally frozen over!"

It pisses you off. It hurts to hear the utter joy that laces his words. It's a slap the face and it has you angerly tearing yourself out from underneath his arms and setting off down the street. Your memory was hazy, and unreliable at best, but you don't care. You'll take your chances on getting lost even further, anything to get away from him even if it means losing track of time and burning up into ash underneath the morning sun. But of course, the universe couldn't give you even the barest ounce of peace and you hear a set of rushed footsteps trailing after you. "Hey, where ya goin'?"

"Away from you!" You shout without even sparing a glance over your shoulder.

"Why? This is a cause for a celebration! " And he starts howling into the night air along with the dog who hasn't let up since your argument started. Jesus Christ, he's got to be the most oblivious, obnoxious man you've ever met. "We should go out. Paint the town red."

The double meaning behind that last bit is obvious, and it's has you tipping even closer to the precipice that you've been dangling over as soon as you came up from her throat covered in blood. It has you twisting around to face him. "Don't say that!" You hiss with pure venom and spite. "You did this! This is your fault!"

"And how do you figure that? Pardon me if I'm wrong but I don't remember bein' the one to tear out some poor schmuck's throat tonight and forcin' you to drink."

A humorless laugh bubbles from your chest, meeting the wild glint of his eyes with a contemptuous disbelief. "You're the one who turned me!"

"Yeah, well maybe I shouldn't 'ave." He sneers, showing off a glimpse of teeth. "I don't know if you've noticed sweetheart, but this hasn't exactly been a fuckin' joyride for me either."

"Then why didn't you kill me when you had the chance?" You voice was raw and exasperated. At this point you were more exhausted than irate at this point. All of the stress and fresh emotions and trauma from the past few days and especially tonight weighing heavy on your shoulders. You don't have the energy to scream anymore and even though Severen still looks tense and charged, hackles still visibly raised but he looked like he was trying to hold himself back in a rare form of self-restraint. He rakes a hand through his hair and sucks in a lungful of air that he probably doesn't even need. "I don't know why, " he answers. It's about as unsatisfying as you expect but of course someone like Severen wouldn't have the emotional intelligence to analyze his own feelings or actions. But what disappoints you the most is that your entire life has been altered, flipped on its head and twisted inside out all based on a whim. And for the first time Severen looks just as confused as you feel, scanning the street absentmindedly before meeting your gaze. "Honest to god I don' know why I did it."

If you had the enough of it left in you, you could have cried. Right out there in the middle of the street. But you were too worn and ragged - nerves too shot and fried to do it. So instead, you just nodded in a sort of grim acceptance. "Do the others know I've left?"

He shakes his head, and stepping forward in a slow languorous walk like he's concerned that he might trigger you again and send you running away. But you don't move. Not even when he's so close that you can smell him. All smoke and iron and spice. "As far as I know they're all still out. But we've only got a few more hours of dark so they'll probably be headin' back soon." For a moment it's oddly quiet. Especially for sharing a space with someone as rambunctious and high energy as Severen and it's probably the most still you've ever seen him apart from when he's asleep. "I woulda found you sooner but the rain mutes scent. Made it hard track ya." If you didn't know any better, it almost sounded like some sort of half assed apology, but you wouldn't fool yourself into believing that. And frankly you aren't sure how respond to it, so you don't.

"I'm not ready to go back. To the motel." You clarify. As much as you want to go back to the room and turn the nozzle of the bathrub on a high heat and scrub at your skin until it's raw and tender you can't bear the thought of them all looking at you. To feel the drilling weight of their eyes searing into you, judging you, celebrating your first kill. Even the thought alone is too much right now. You expect Severen to scoff at you. To laugh and tell you to quit being chicken shit, but he doesn't. "I'm sure we can find some place to lay low fer a bit."

The walk is mostly uneventful apart from when Severen has to tear his jacket off and throw it over your shoulders to hide your blood-stained shirt from a small band of drunks who pour out of a closing bar, laughing into the night when one slips on the wet concrete and falls on his ass. They barely spare the two of you a passing glance, too busy jeering at their fallen friend but you clutch the leather around the front of your shirt regardless. It smells so much like him that it's almost overwhelming. Heavy with the smoke of cigarettes and fire and something spicy that may be cinnamon or cardamom.

You walk for a good ten minutes or so, and if it wasn't for the McDonald's that you had passed earlier you would have absolutely no idea where you were at. It at least gives you the impression that you must be somewhere near the motel. But then you're both crossing the street and slipping through a few dirt paths that cut between houses. It's completely aimless but eventually you both stumble upon a sort of park, though it isn't much more than an old swing set and a metal slide that looks like it'd leave you with third degree burns if you slid down it on a hot day.

The badges and trinkets on Severen's jacket clink lightly when you move to sit down on one of the swings and you tuck your hands deep inside the sleeves so that you don't have to see the blood and dirt marring your fingers. He seats himself beside you and the old, rusted chains suspending his weight creek and groan in a sort of weak protest when he starts to rock himself back and forth with his heels, digging his spurs into the ground that's been worn down from years of foot traffic. And for a moment you just look around, admiring the quaint little neighborhood that surrounds you. Old houses with chipped paint and rickety chain linked fences. Some of them have grills in their yard where families and friends sit around on the porch and yard in collapsible chairs while they gossip about work and life and cook hot dogs and burgers. One has a basketball hoop sitting on the edge of the driveway and the another has a broken-down classic car parked on the side of the road near the lawn. You wondered about who lived there. If it was a vehicle that they worked for and saved up to get - a dream car, or if it was an heirloom of sorts, passed down through the family. But beyond it all was that vast desert. Miles of dust and darkness.

"What are we exactly?" The question is sudden, and it takes you a second to process that it was your own voice who asked. He doesn't answer immediately, and you nearly think that he didn't hear you at all. You turn your head to look at him and he's squinting while staring ahead like he's thinking. "I'm not sure. Jesse never had a name for it. And I've only met one other who was like us but that was way back when."

It strikes you with a sort of helplessness, a feeling that you've become uncomfortably familiar with these past few days. But that couldn't be right, could it? If they've all lived for as long as they have then surely one of them knows something. "Well, what about Jesse? I mean . . . Someone had to have turned him."

"Course someone turned him," Severen replies, pulling a cigarette from the front pocket of his flannel button up and setting it between his lips. "But he doesn't talk about them much. Not even tuh me." Then he's flicking a zippo lighter open and sticking the end of it in the open flame until it burns like an ember. It's wild to think that they've all just accepted this bizarre, violent way of life without any idea of knowing what they really are. If there was an end in sight or if they really were set to walk this earth for eternity until mankind wiped itself off the face of the planet or some unforeseeable cataclysm hurtled humanity into a mass extinction. And just a few hours ago you thought it was all the ravings of an ill group of killers but now here you are tacky with blood and sitting on a fucking swing set of all places next to the man who tore your life apart. And it strikes you that you know startingly little about him. "How old are you?"

"You know it ain't polite to ask someone their age," he clicks his tongue disapprovingly but there's no real bite to it and then he's taking a deep inhale of smoke from his cigarette. "I was turned . . . - when was I turned? The fall of eighty-five, I think. That's 1885. You do the math."

It's 1988 now. So, if you're correct that would mean that he's about . . . a hundred and three years old. You blink dumbly at the information, gaping like an idiot while you stare ahead run the math over in your head again. You can hear him giggling at your side. That stupid chortle that sounds like a weird blend of Goofy and a hyena. "Don' look a day over thirty-two, do I?"

Then how old is Jesse? He is the first if you aren't mistaken. It takes you a second to get your head screwed on straight, laughing not because it's particularly funny but mostly because you still can't quite believe it. "Yeah. You don't look too bad for an old man." You joke which earns you a boot to the ankle. But despite the barbless jab you're still reeling. The entire night has been a rollercoaster that you've just been barely able to hold onto and if you're being honest your mind is still playing catch up with everything that's happened. But if you can pretend for even one selfish moment that the blood covering your hands isn't there then you'll take it. Even if it's for just a second. "Were you like a cowboy? Did you play poker with Billy the Kid? Rob a couple of trains?"

"Nah, never met Kid. But I did know Sam Bass. And I only got around to robbin' one train. " The name is vague. But you can think you can remember your grandfather some time ago rambling about the outlaw one night when you were a kid. Forced to sit on the couch after you had accidentally broken one of his model planes. The old west had never particularly intrigued you, but your grandfather was a fan to say the least, ingesting hours' worth of old shows like Gunsmoke and Bonanza and owning a large collection of Zane Grey novels. You had prompted him to tell you about old outlaws and gunslingers, hoping to get back into his good graces so that you could freely roam around the house, but it had horribly backfired and instead you had spent about two hours fixed to the old scratchy cushions while he gushed about his fixation. And Sam Bass was a name that had come up. He was a train robber, if you aren't mistaken.

"So, what did you do in your human life? Did you have a family?" You ask, playing with the patch on the edge of his jackets sleeve.

"Shit I would've grabbed a bottle of booze if I had known that we were gonna play a game of twenty questions," he quips.

"Please, you love talking talk about yourself," you counter. You aren't sure where your burst of confidence has come from. Sure, you've never necessarily been one to shy away from antagonizing Severen or giving him a taste of his own medicine but feels more relaxed than usual. It's more of a sort of banter than the outright insults that you two throw at each other. Even though all of your anger is still very much burning you don't have the energy or drive to let yourself be mad right now. Not after tonight. " This is the first time in a while you actually have someone who's willing to listen."

"Plenty of people love listen' to me. I could charm the chastity belt off a nun," he grins, teeth biting into filter of his cigarette so that he doesn't lose it to the ground. And there's a smug glint in his eyes, all cocky and self-assured. But there's a mean quality to it as well peeking through the blue and pinning you in place. I charmed you too once, it said, and it had a bitter taste scattering across your tongue. Like you need any reminders, it's how you wound up here in the first place. And as much as you'd love to blame it on the heartbreak and high emotions there is something that's regretfully charming about Severen. In a brash and troublesome sort of way. That is until he opens his mouth and speaks and then everything goes downhill from there.

He snuffs out his cigarette on the sole of his boot before tucking it behind his ear for safekeeping. "Life wasn' all that fascinating. Both of my parents were immigrants from the Netherlands, but I was born an' raised in Texas. The second born of four kids. All brothers. I started pick pocketin' and stealin' when I was young- nothin' too serious, mostly just jewelry, food, yer usual shit. But I didn't make a career out of it until I was about fifteen or so. Not to stroke my own ego but I wasn' all that bad at it." And he's shooting you that boastful grin, all sharp around the edges and proud. "But before all that I was rustlin' cattle and stealin' horses, but it led me into join' a gang and from then on, I moved onto bigger and better things. I even had the Texas Rangers after me for a while."

It's no wonder that he took to this life so well. If your limited knowledge on old wild west gangs had any merit, then you at least knew that the life had to be exceptionally rough. And murder of some kind usually followed. Especially if he was out robbing trains and probably banks and God knows what else. It seemed like he was practically already living the Hooker lifestyle before he was even turned. Minus the blood drinking . . . hopefully.

'Did you use an alias or something? " You ask, lightly pushing your swing in a slight sway with the toes of your shoes. "I don't think I've ever heard of you."

He just stares at you like he couldn't believe your audacity, eyebrows pinching, and he sets his jaw like he's offended. "Well, shit darlin' you sure know how to make a man feel good about himself. " He scoffs. " We can't all be Jesse fucking James. " And then he's patting his breast pocket for his carton of cigarettes even though he's still got one tucked between his ear. But then he's pausing with his fingers still stuck in his pocket, looking up past the houses and out towards the horizon like he hears something. And it strikes you that he can hear it too. That steady ancient thrum that's always pulsing in the back of your head. It seems louder that it did before, clearer and closer and its humming inside your chest. "We best get going." He announces, rising from the swing that squeals harshly at the sudden movement. "Before we've got the sun licking at our heels and settin' our asses on fire."

The sun. It's the sun. You've heard about the circadian rhythm, that subconscious clock that helps to guide people through their sleep cycles. But this was something else entirely. To be able to feel and hear a star before it even rises is insane and if it wasn't for the absolute lunacy of the past four days you wouldn't believe it. You rise from your own swing, stepping to follow after him but you find yourself a few stopping short, scanning the horizon like you might see it peeking over the edge. A hint of light. A glowing strip of lavender or gold. But there's nothing yet. Just that persistent heavy drone.

You can feel the blood and dirt on your hands. Now dried and flaking but still staining your skin.

"Are you comin' or what? We ain't got all night!"

You glance one last time at the sky, still hauntingly dark and twinkling with stars and constellations before focusing back on Severen. You offer a smile at the questioning look he gives you. Deep cystaline eyes peering at you through the dark.

"Yeah, I'm coming."

#severen x reader #severen van sickle x reader #severen near dark #near dark x reader #near dark 1987 #near dark #severen van sickle #Severen

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