True to his word, Vincent did arrive at work the next day, but in body only. He was like a machine. He came through the door at nine o'clock in the morning almost to the second, worked efficiently until noon, left for the allotted hour, returned at exactly one, and then continued working. At nine in the evening, he stopped in the middle of what he'd been doing and exited the shop. His expression never changed during the day; it was as if it had been chiseled out of stone.
It didn't take a genius to see that he was in some inner turmoil. But, Elira wondered if it would take a diviner to see what that turmoil was.
He'd taken the blame for everything. He'd put it all on his own shoulders. It hadn't been Elira's fault he'd withdrawn. It hadn't been her fault he'd taken the pills. None of it had been her fault.
And that set Elira to questioning who, then, did he feel was at fault? As far as she knew, he hadn't wronged her, but that didn't seem to mean much to him. What she thought wasn't going to make him believe any different, she had a feeling. But, as the days went by, Elira began to think that perhaps it wasn't a wrong he'd committed against her that was bothering him. She was trying, after all, to show her good will, to show that she forgave him for whatever he was beating himself for, but nothing she did had any effect on his behaviour. It was almost as if he was afraid that he'd somehow wronged fate, and was now hanging back, afraid of punishment but waiting for amnesty.
She wondered what would make him realize that people made their own fate. Because people did make their own fate, didn't they? That's what she'd been brought up to believe.
But, whether a person believes in the law of gravity or not doesn't impress gravity at all.
Vincent didn't miss another day. Elira almost wished a couple of times that, just once, he wouldn't show up so that she could run to his apartment and have a few of the mysteries solved. Because Vincent was never going to tell her. He was never going to tell her what had happened to make him try to kill himself, or at least to drug himself out of his mind if he hadn't been trying to commit suicide. He was never going to explain what had happened to his apartment, assuming he knew. She'd entertained the thought at the beginning that perhaps he was a hunted man and that those pursuing him had finally found him. So, he had come home that night to find his flat in shambles, and, in his moment of defenseless shock, he'd been ambushed. And they'd tried to kill him while making it look like a suicide.
But, her mind had argued moments later, if that were the case why would Vincent still be in Neo-Midgar? If she had been in a position like that, she would've left the city the minute she'd recovered her senses.
Other guesses came to her mind as she tried to figure out the enigma, but each, like the first, had loopholes she couldn't overlook, or were so fantastic as to be impossible. After about a week of battering her brains for a suitable answer to the mystery, she came to the conclusion that she would never figure it out and could make one of two choices: she could forget all about it and honor Vincent's request that they both back off, or she could continue trying to gain his trust and friendship at the risk of chasing him away altogether.
...I'm willing to take the risk...
What did she have to lose? If he left for good, what difference would it make? He was gone in all but body now.
But, she wasn't sure how to approach him again. Directly would probably be too much too fast. So it would have to be subtle. After Vincent left in the evenings, she began taking the later train to MiraCletus, a gun and a clip of bullets in her pockets. And she would go to the park, hoping to 'accidentally' bump into him. She would spend an hour waiting for him, shooting at bottles. But he never came. The only relationship that developed out of her trips to the park was the one between herself and the gun. She began shattering bottles.
And although this brought her satisfaction, it wasn't bringing her any closer to Vincent. She needed another way of subtly getting them alone together where he wouldn't, couldn't run away.
And so, when she got a call a few days later from the curator of a high security museum in Odriam, sector seven, who'd heard good things about her shop and who wanted an expert's opinion on whether or not the restoration of some very old guns was possible, Elira took less than a second to make the decision of who would accompany her. After all, Vincent Valentine was full of mysteries. Who knew what opinions were harbored in that barred and locked mind?
Vincent didn't argue when she informed him that he would be accompanying her on the excursion to Odriam. He didn't say anything. He nodded once, not even looking up from his work. And Elira returned to her desk, silently cheering.
When the day of the jaunt to sector seven arrived, Elira waited until the rest of the employees entered and were settled before leaving Benita in charge. Vincent followed behind her as they walked to the train station, but Elira didn't let his distance bother her as she soaked in the peace of a morning in Virna that she so rarely got to see.
The station was quite crowded as people prepared to start a day shift or to get off a night shift. Elira paid for both of their tickets out of revenues, since this was officially a business trip, and she led the way onto the train and along the rubber mat that lined the walkway between seats. Because of the crowd, it was impossible for them to get seats together, so, while Vincent slipped in beside a small, balding man who looked like he could be an executive for some corporation, Elira found a remaining seat beside a teenager. He was a tall, lanky youth with green, spiky hair and many assorted face rings. Elira tried not to notice the way he leered at her when she sat.
They rode in silence for a few minutes, but once they were out of sector four, the boy turned to her. "Why, hello there, ma'am. Nice day, huh? Where're you headed?"
Elira looked at him out of the corner of her eye. He couldn't have been any more than seventeen. His tone of voice was friendly, almost mockingly so, and there was something about his expression that made her uncomfortable. She wished suddenly she hadn't taken the first seat she'd seen.
"You know, I asked you a question, ma'am," the boy continued in the same sickly sweet voice. "It isn't polite not to answer."
Elira didn't look at him. She didn't want to answer, but she also didn't want a scene. It wasn't uncommon for a teenager to follow someone down the street as a joke, talking to them as if they knew them, but sometimes it could get ugly. Depending on the teenager, a victim of this treatment could, at the least, find themselves being pelted with rocks or, at the most, wind up with a knife in their back.
"Odriam."
The boy gave a little chuckle. "What a coincidence. That's where I get off. Maybe I can take you somewhere nice, ma'am."
Elira shifted in her seat, suddenly restless. The longer this conversation lasted, the less she liked it. She stiffened as the boy leaned over and put his lips next to her ear.
"Do you want to f**k?" He then leaned away from her, laughing and snorting as if what he'd said had been the most witty thing in the world.
He had foul breath, as if he had been drinking recently. Elira glanced around nervously, but it didn't look as if anyone around her realized her discomfort. Or, if they realized it, they didn't care to get involved. She wanted to look over her shoulder at Vincent who was sitting across the aisle a few seats down, but she dared not move too obviously, thereby drawing the attention of the teenager. If he got the impression she was thinking of getting up, who knew what he would try. Maybe nothing. Maybe he was harmless, a kid looking for money or just a laugh. But maybe he was willing to injure, rape, or kill...
In either case, it was better to stay where she was, she decided. She'd handled her share of rude men, so she could handle this. And, if he was dangerous, she didn't want to rile him. She was fairly delicate by nature and not very strong, even though she had been working in a gunsmith shop for four years. However, she'd usually left the pounding of the parts into shape to the others, the others who were stronger. So, knowing her physical limits, she generally avoided situations like this. She rarely took the train, and when she did it was never during the rush hours. She took care when walking at night. And the men had always been around in the shop if things got out of hand.
It was an eternity until the train stopped at Odriam, sector seven. The boy was still seated beside her, though she had been eyeing the seats that had opened up around her as other passengers got off at their respective stations. Now, even before the car had finished slowing, she was preparing to stand and dash away. But, the boy seemed to know, as if he had done this hundreds of times. He put a sweaty hand around her wrist, keeping her in her seat until the train had come to a complete halt.
"Here's our stop, ma'am," he said quietly in her ear. Then, still gripping her wrist tightly, he bent over and retrieved a switchblade from his boot. Elira tried not to look at it. "Now, well get off together. And I want you to be a nice lady for me."
As people began to stand, he ushered her up, turning her so that he was holding her arm behind her. She inhaled sharply as she felt the point of the knife through the back of her coat. The boy urged her forward and she took a few steps, her heart beating frantically even though she did her best to remain calm. Panicking would only bring the worst.
She turned into the aisle, her eyes searching for Vincent among the people standing. But she was unable to find him. She bit her tongue to keep herself from whimpering. Perhaps he'd gotten off once the train had stopped, uninterested in waiting for her. She'd already informed him of the whereabouts of the museum. But, as the car emptied, she noticed him still seated, his eyes downcast as if he were one of the few going on to Penora, sector eight. She wanted to cough, or clear her throat, or even 'accidentally' kick Vincent as the boy forced her past him to get him to look up, but for all she knew the boy might recognize her cry for help and stab her. Maybe it would be safer to wait until he'd taken her off the train because then Vincent would be able to see the situation for himself when the boy tried to lead her away.
But would Vincent do anything?
This thought almost choked her into giving a fearful sob. He wasn't interested in befriending her, or in trusting her. And her trust of him was still shaky. He'd hurt her even though he'd said he didn't want to see her hurt. Maybe he didn't care anymore, just as long as she left him alone. And if this boy took her away, it would probably ensure that he would never be bothered by her again. He was lining up another job, too, so the possible death of his boss wouldn't mean very much to him.
...death...
She would cough as she passed and at least alert him to her predicament. And then, whatever happened after that, happened. But she had to put up some kind of a fight to this. She would not go gently...
She was getting ready to cough when a sudden sound of movement distracted her. And then, she was jerked around as the hand holding her wrist pulled her back. The fingers let go and she found herself looking into the bulging eyes of the teenager, a foot away from her now, his face turning a shade of purple that clashed with his hair.
Vincent was standing with his back to her, one boot on the mat in the aisle, the other hidden behind his seat. His left arm was stretched out before him, the metal fingers of his prosthetic clamped around the boy's neck as the teenager gasped and choked, clawing at the golden hand in an effort to pry it loose. For a long moment, Vincent stood like that, unmoving. Elira was becoming afraid that Vincent would kill him when the black-clothed man suddenly thrust the boy away from him, propelling him onto his back along the aisle. The switchblade skittered under the seats.
The teenager lay there for a moment, drawing lungful after painful lungful of air. And then he pushed himself up in a frenzy, staring at Vincent as if looking death in the face.
Vincent turned swiftly after a suitable pause. His eyes burned with something Elira had never before seen in him though his expression remained unmoved. She saw the astonished and fearful stares of the passengers in the car and, for a moment, she found herself becoming a little afraid as he approached her. Dressed in black with his hair hanging wildly as it ever had, his eyes bright in a pale face, he looked almost demonic. Elira could almost believe he had intended to kill the boy.
But this was the same Vincent, the Vincent she'd found a soulmate in, discovering security and a drawing curiousity from what others feared about him. The same Vincent she had trusted, did trust...
He stopped in front of her, his eyes searching her face. She tried to wipe all traces of fear from her features, tried to be worthy of his gaze. She'd told Benita that she would never reject him, never judge him; she knew the pain of rejection when it came from someone you trusted who'd seen what there was to reject. And he could trust her; she wouldn't fear or despise him, even if the whole world turned on him.
She wondered if she saw shame in his eyes, if she saw fear.
But he had saved her life, restored her trust in him. There was no shame in that. And even if the desire to kill the boy had crossed his mind, he hadn't acted upon it. She hadn't seen anything in him that he needed be ashamed about. He need not fear her judgment.
She wondered if she'd seen bloodlust in his eyes when he'd turned, the danger she'd detected upon first seeing him. Perhaps it was his past that shamed him more than this present situation, something about his past that had almost surfaced in dealing with the teenager.
And maybe it had to do with the woman who'd died at the hands of an abusive husband. Elira hoped again that Vincent would someday tell her the details of the story. She didn't want him to be ashamed about his past, about anything, around her. He could trust her.
Elira didn't know whether he'd seen the fear in her expression or not, but in any case, he looked up suddenly and made motions with his hands to indicate that he wanted her to move forward so that they both could get off the train. She hoped fervently that he'd seen the understanding acceptance she'd felt toward him during his moment of shame, fear, and weakness. It had been what he'd searched for on her face, she was almost sure.
The train station was empty now, all of the passengers having departed for work or home. Vincent jogged hastily down the stone steps of the platform and began to walk quickly away from the station in the direction of the museum. Elira called after him, trying to remind him that she'd brought money for a taxi, but he either didn't hear or didn't want to hear. With a sigh of frustration, she shoved her money back into her pocket and ran after him.
He didn't look at her as she came up beside him, struggling to keep the pace he'd set. She knew instinctively that he was not going to tell her what was wrong, but she couldn't help asking anyway. "Vincent, what's wrong?"
She was not disappointed. There was no answer. Elira wondered if maybe she should bring the hammer out slowly from behind her back before hitting the nail head-on. "Thank you, Vincent. What you did on the train probably saved my life."
He didn't say that she was welcome. But he did give a small scoff that puffed his breath out in a cloud of steaming air.
Elira felt a little insulted by his response. "What? Are you upset that you saved my life? Is that what's bothering you?" She knew it wasn't, but she demanded it in hopes that he would attempt to placate her with an answer.
And answer he did, though his words were far from mollifying. He stopped walking and turned to her, leaning in slightly, his words fast and quiet. "I know you saw it, Elira. I know you saw it in my eyes. Don't even try to tell me that you did not." His gaze was penetrating, but not in a way that frightened. He looked almost fearful himself. Elira wasn't sure how to answer. She had seen something, but she couldn't be sure...
"Vincent, everyone gets angry. Frankly, I'm glad you did or that kid might've carted me off to do terrible things to me. I think he deserved what he got."
Vincent shook his head, frowning. "That's not what I mean. You saw the look that said I had been ready to break his neck. I know you did. I saw the fear in you when I turned."
Elira frowned now, rolling her eyes. "Is that what this is about? Vincent, I felt like breaking his neck."
Vincent leaned in closer, his eyes seeming to glow brighter as his dark form blocked out the light. "But you saw the look in my eyes, the hunger for the kill."
Elira could not deny it. That was what she had thought to have seen.
"And I saw how you looked at me with pity once the fear was gone, Elira. But I don't want you to pity me. I want you to understand that I am dangerous and that you must leave me alone."
At these words, Elira raised her chin stubbornly, returning his gaze with one of her own. He'd been looking for acceptance and understanding in her eyes on the train, and now he was denying it. Did he think she hadn't seen his short, desperate search of her face? She knew he was lying in saying that he wanted her to leave. They were too much the same for him to lie to her that way. Both of them wanted, needed, to be understood, to be accepted. Even if they denied it, it was still true. But he was afraid of the curse, too afraid to embrace the friendship she held out to him, the friendship both of them were frantic for.
Elira wasn't afraid of her curse enough to base her whole life around it. And Vincent didn't have to be, either. "Vincent, I am dangerous, too. I killed my husband with myself, who I am. Don't you think that's dangerous? But I'm willing to take a risk. I was so alone and didn't even realize it until you arrived, and now I don't want to go back to being alone because I'll recognize it for the aching void it is. I'm willing to befriend you when you're dangerous for the sake of helping you and helping myself. I trust that you're not going to go off and kill yourself because of me." Elira blinked quickly as she felt tears start to form. "Why aren't you willing to take the same chance on me? I promise I won't put myself in a dangerous position rather than be with you, I won't reject you the way that it happened with that woman. You can trust me. I know what that pain is and I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."
Vincent was shaking his head again, almost desperately. "Elira, there are things you don't know about me, things you can't know. I do trust that you would do your best not to hurt me willingly, but fate rarely cares whether someone is willing or not."
Elira scowled. "Vincent, there is no fate except what we make for ourselves!"
Vincent looked around, an expression of longing and pain so vivid on his face that Elira wanted to apologize for this whole argument. But Vincent spoke first. "How I wish that was true, Elira. Wishing won't make something so, though. Fate does exist; it has tormented me all of my life. Even now, it torments me. To have you, the first person I feel I can trust after all of this time, so close to me, and yet to not be able to fill the emptiness because of the curse put on me as punishment..."
Elira was becoming worried. Vincent had never been this worked up before, to be talking to her this openly about something that obviously pained him greatly. But the curse, the curse... "Vincent, the curse isn't fate, it's just a fear that history can and will repeat itself. Really, it's just nonsense." She almost laughed at the irony of this. She had been trying to make herself believe that for years without success, and now she was offering it as advice.
"Maybe your curse wasn't woven by fate, Elira, but mine was. For failing to protect the only person I'd ever trusted, fate cursed me. And now, history is repeating itself for me. As soon as I tried to become close to you, fate woke the curse within me, ensuring your death if you stepped into any relationship with me."
Elira knit her brow in confusion and frustration. She didn't understand what he was saying, though she was trying her best since he seemed so adamant about it. "What do you mean 'ensuring my death'? Nothing is ever sure, Vincent. That's where the risk comes in. We'd both be risking the pain we've already been through and our own deaths because we're both afraid that it's possible it could happen again."
"But, Elira, it can and will happen again. You see, as punishment, I am the dangerous situation you would try so hard to avoid. Unless we get no closer, I will become your sure death." His eyes were pleading, willing her to believe.
But Elira couldn't believe. There was no such thing as fate. The fear of the curse had just affected Vincent so badly that he could no longer see past it. How could he be her sure death? If he somehow killed her, he would cause himself the agony both of them never wanted to experience again. Why would he kill her in that case?
And Elira began to fear those things that she didn't, couldn't know about him.
Vincent had turned from her and was now walking along the deserted sidewalk as if he hadn't said anything. Elira hurried to catch up with him.
"Vincent, what is this 'sure death' that you're talking about? What won't you let me know about you? What makes you so dangerous?"
Vincent didn't answer. He had already answered.
But his answer hadn't been the one Elira wanted.
"Vincent, you can tell me. I can handle it. And I won't reject you because of it, whatever it is."
"It is nothing you have ever had to deal with before. You do not know the extent of what you can forgive and accept."
"Well, neither do you! I'll decide what I can accept, and I'll decide what's dangerous for me. But, for me to be able to make that decision, I need to know what this 'horrible secret' you're keeping is."
He didn't look at her. "Leave it be, Elira. And leave me be. Let sleeping demons lie."
Elira gave a sigh and continued walking in silence. Getting Vincent alone with her hadn't worked. Her hopes of drawing him closer, close enough to trust her, had been fouled up even before they'd reached the sector. Although he had talked to her, what he'd said had only served to push him further away. He didn't trust that she could handle the painful truth about his past without rejecting him. And he didn't trust himself around her because of 'fate', because of her 'sure death'. If only there were a way to get around that, to show him that there was no such thing as fate, to make him believe that getting into a friendship with him wasn't suicide for her. Maybe it was possible, but it would take more time, more patience. She would have to wait until he'd calmed down; because of this outburst, it was conceivable that his old regrets and old guilt would resurface. He would feel the need of someone's acceptance if only to assuage the re-emerging agony. The need of that could possibly outweigh any fear of 'fate', and that might provide her with an in. So she would be there if and when it happened.
The museum was a two-story building surrounded by a tall, thick wall of white rock, its entrance closed off with a high iron gate. Elira spent a good ten minutes trying to convince the guard on the other side of the gate that she was a gunsmith and had been called by the curator to inspect his weaponry displays. Finally, the irritated guard used the intercom to speak to the curator and found out, to his distemper, that Elira had been telling the truth. It took every ounce of her self-control to smile at the man as she passed instead of telling him she hoped he got fired because of this.
The interior of the building was immense and richly decorated with designs both modern and historical. The roof stretched away above her and spiraling staircases stood across the room, leading up to the second level. The floor was of a hard tan paneling that squeaked a little under Elira's sneakers. Surrounded on all sides by beauty and art, she found herself feeling somewhat small and ugly dressed comfortably in her favorite overalls, covered by a seasoned winter coat, with her unprimped red curls and lightly freckled face. She had considered dressing up at first, but had then decided against it. She was Elira Maddison, representing a small shop in Virna, the scummiest sector, just trying to eke out a living doing the thing she loved. And if people didn't like that, it was their problem. She wasn't going to make herself look larger than life for appearances. The curator had hired her for her talents and not her splendor, that much was obvious. Odriam had its own gunsmiths, after all, who were probably much classier than she. If he'd been looking for pomp and grandeur, he could've called one of them. And so, she held herself with all of the confidence she could muster while looking around in awe of this great collection of works.
Once the initial shock provided by the museum had worn off, Elira allowed herself a glance at Vincent. Obviously not a strong connoisseur of the arts, he was staring straight ahead at an undefined point, as ridgid as if he were a soldier in ranks. Elira would've normally been tempted to say some witty remark about his posture, but considering their previous conversation, it seemed out of place.
The curator, an elderly, well-kept gentleman wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a navy blue suit, appeared at the top of one of the staircases. After a pause, he started down the steps. It took him less time than Elira would've imagined to cross the expanse separating the stairs from the front door, his thick legs carrying him quickly across the polished floor.
"Ah, hello Miss...Maddison, was it? Yes, of course. Forgive my wandering mind. I'd forgotten you were coming today." He chuckled deeply and Elira allowed him a forgiving smile. "I hope Jaron didn't give you too hard a time at the gate."
Elira shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing we couldn't handle."
"Excellent, excellent." He put his aged hands together and turned his bespectacled gaze to Vincent. "And you must be the fellow gunsmith Miss Maddison was telling me about over the phone. It's wonderful to meet you. I am Mr. Geddes, the curator of this museum. And you are?"
"Valentine, Vincent."
Mr. Geddes' eyes took in Vincent's rather dark and disheveled appearance, prosthetic and all, in one quick sweep without any reaction. Elira found herself impressed.
Mr. Geddes gave a small sigh. "Well, Mr. Valentine, Miss Maddison, I do hope that you will be able to help our museum restore a number of our more famous relics."
"We'll do what we can," Elira replied.
Mr. Geddes smiled. "That's all I ask of you. Now please, if you'll follow me." He turned and led the way back up the curving stairway. Elira fell in behind him, Vincent walking a few paces after her.
If possible, the second floor was even more magnificent than the first. Large chandeliers hung languidly from the ceiling, shedding their prismatic light around the rooms. Suits of armor from different times stood stoically in wall slots; swords of unequaled beauty were on display behind glass cases; brightly coloured shields and pennants adorned the walls. Elira found herself gaping again and again at different sights as they walked. Although guns were her passion, she had an reverent admiration for other weapons of battle and their histories, as well as the development of protective armors over the centuries.
As they stepped into the room where the museum kept its store of firearms, Elira felt as if she was a child in a candy store. She'd dreamed sometimes of visiting a museum like this, though she hadn't pursued this stream of dreaming to the point of finding a museum in Neo-Midgar. She looked around delightedly to see examples of weapons she'd only ever seen in the gunsmith's ancient book. And then she turned to see if Vincent was as touched by this sight as she.
Vincent's attention seemed to have been captured by a certain gun that was held to the wall with a couple of iron hooks behind a glass box. Elira backtracked a few steps to see if she recognized the model. It was a large, unwieldy looking thing with a wooden butt as long as her arm and a barrel that might've reached from her hip to halfway down her shin. As she was searching her memory banks for any image of it, Mr. Geddes began to speak from behind her.
"Ah, I see Mr. Valentine has an eye for the uncommon and extraordinary. This particular gun is almost fifty years old. I found it at a rarity shop here in Neo-Midgar three years ago; the man who sold it to me said he'd bought it from a mountain climber who claimed to have found it way up north while scaling Gaea's Cliff. Odd, hmm?" He gave a chuckle. "It's rumored that it once belonged to one of the legendary heroes who battled Sephiroth the Mad."
Caught up suddenly in the stories Barret had told her about himself and eight others who had saved the planet, Elira held her breath. She'd been only thirteen when the fateful battle had taken place. Her father had kept her inside the entire period that meteor had hung in the sky, barreling down at speeds no mind could comprehend; she'd learned later that Avalanche had been through their small town of Kalm numerous times. She'd mourned the lost chance of catching a glimpse of them, the only ones brave enough to go. She'd felt she was brave enough, but her father had persuaded her that the greatest service she could do them was to stay out of their way.
"What's its name?" she asked, her voice no louder than a whisper.
"The Death Penalty."
Elira glanced at Vincent just as Mr. Geddes did. Both men had answered her at the same time. Elira was made to recall the conversation she had overheard between Vincent and Barret. Was it possible that Vincent had, at one point over ten years ago, owned this gun? It seemed too incredible to believe...
"So you know of it?" Mr. Geddes asked.
The answer was obvious, but Vincent nodded anyway. He continued standing in front of the glass for a few moments longer as if staring into the face of a dead loved one, saying one last goodbye before the closing of the casket. And then he turned and nodded once to Mr. Geddes. The old man smiled and began to lead the way again.
The guns in question were quite aged, and there were more than a few of them. Elira and Vincent inspected them through the glass, giving what opinion they could. And Vincent did indeed have some good thoughts to offer on the subject, often pointing out small details about certain guns that would make the restoration process easier or more difficult. By the time noon had rolled around, they hadn't gotten more than halfway through the collection of weapons. Mr. Geddes thanked them profusely for their help, asking if perhaps they would return in the following week at the same time. Elira agreed readily, more than eager to browse among the guns again with such a source as Vincent by her side.
Elira smiled as she stepped out of the museum, feeling the cold air nip at her nose and cheeks. Her mood was the best it had been in a while, she having quite forgotten the incidents of the earlier morning. She was about to ask Vincent if he would accompany her next week, too, when she saw him turn her way suddenly. But he wasn't turning to look at her. It was a noise from behind them that had caught his attention, a whistling noise as if a rock were being thrown through the air. Elira heard it only a split-second before she felt herself being pushed out of the way. She stumbled and fell onto her backside, her eyes closing involuntarily as a cry of pain filled her ears. But it wasn't her cry.
Elira opened her eyes to see Vincent stagger a step or two to the side, doubling over with his right hand clutching at his left shoulder. Elira's eyes widened as she saw the handle of a small blade protruding from his upper arm. For some reason, the handle looked familiar.
An obnoxious laugh filled the air. Elira lifted her eyes from Vincent and searched the area in both rage and fear for the source of the sound. She wondered as her eyes frantically swept the district if Odriam had as bad a problem with street violence as Virna. It would explain the high security at the museum, she realized. And then she saw him.
It was the same hair, the same distastefully decorated face. She instantly recognized the boy from the train.
He was still laughing, as if Vincent's pain tickled him. His eyes were filled with anger, though, when they met Elira's. "That was aimed for you, bitch!" he screamed from in front of the museum wall, half a block away now. "If your freak hadn't pushed you out of the way, you'd be dead now!" His words dissolved into another fit of strange, wrathful laughter.
Vincent did his best to muffle a grunt as he straightened and took a step in Elira's direction. Elira jumped to her feet and was at his side within moments. He lowered his face as she came up to him to inspect his shoulder. The blade was embedded up to the hilt. Elira winced at the sight of the blood starting to seep through the cloth of his coat. She was tempted to pull the small knife out of Vincent's arm, but knew that would only cause the wound to start gushing. She had to get him to a hospital. This time there weren't going to be any excuses.
"C'mon, Vincent. We've got to get out of here."
Vincent didn't argue as she took his right arm, ignoring the blood on his hand. She wasn't sure where the hospital was, but if they could find a phone somewhere she could call for an ambulance. If only that boy weren't standing in front of the museum...
Elira knew it was wishful thinking to believe that the teenager would leave them alone now that he'd inflicted some pain, but what else could she do except what she was doing? She could tell that Vincent was trying his best to hurry, clenching his teeth as he attempted to ignore the fire in his shoulder. And he was doing a very good job by Elira's standards. She did her best to only say words of encouragement, even when she could hear the running footsteps of the approaching boy.
The teenager didn't stop until he was standing a few feet in front of them, grinning insolently at the scene he'd created. Elira could see bruise marks starting on his neck from where Vincent had gripped him. She wondered suddenly if Vincent had his gun on him, but then reproached herself violently. She couldn't kill this boy, even if he was no innocent. He was still a human life. She knew if she shot him, the image of his death would stay with her for the rest of her days, haunting her. And there was probably some mother out there whose heart she would break. No, she wouldn't cause his death.
But she hoped hers and Vincent's deaths weren't the only other way of ending this.
Elira kept putting one foot in front of the other, holding onto Vincent's arm as if it was a lifeline, trying to keep her expression steady as she walked closer to the boy. As she tried to lead Vincent around him, though, he put himself in the way, blocking their route. Elira didn't look up at him. He laughed again.
"What's the matter, ma'am? Having a bad day? Come on, I'm sure you have a pretty smile for me."
Elira wanted more than anything to deck him one, but she was sure that wouldn't go over very well. She tried to lead Vincent around him again, but he stepped in the way once more, smirking.
"Come on, ma'am. Give me a beautiful smile."
Elira glanced up and forced her lips to curve upward. Right before she swung an arm around, hitting him with her open palm across the face. The impact stung horribly all the way to her shoulder. The teenager stumbled to the side a step and then looked up in shock, clearly surprised by her resistance. Elira stood staring as his face contorted with his growing anger.
A tug on her arm brought her back to her senses as Vincent tried to pull her quickly away. She followed him blindly, realizing that if the boy hadn't been ready to kill her before, he was now. She ran, holding onto Vincent's sleeve with bone-white fingers, feeling desperate panic begin to gnaw at her mind. When she felt hard fingers grab her hair and pull her back, she was unable to keep herself from giving a shrill scream of terror. She saw Vincent turn, his eyes bright, as she was hauled backward. And then she was whirled around to face her assailant.
His breath was still foul Elira realized as he seethed in her face. She struggled in his grip, but he only tightened his fingers around her upper arms until it hurt. She tried to kick him in the shin, but he moved suddenly and then reciprocated the action. But he didn't miss. If it hadn't been for his crushing hands, she would've crumpled in pain to the ground.
"You bitch! I'm going to kill you!" Elira lifted her head despite the waves of agony and nausea still washing through her. But now he wasn't looking at her, and his grip loosened as Vincent approached him, looking as dangerous as she'd ever seen him. The teenager let go of Elira and she sank slowly onto the road that led up to the museum, her shin throbbing. Tears burned in her eyes as she watched Vincent advance, standing straight despite the knife in his arm.
One on one this way, it was more than obvious that the boy would normally have had no chance. Vincent was taller, stronger, and quicker. At least, quicker in most cases. As Vincent blocked a punch headed for his chest, the teenager shot out an unexpected hand. Before Vincent was able to react sufficiently, the boy had grasped the handle of his switchblade. And then, twisting the knife inside the wound, he pulled it out. Vincent gave a strangled cry as blood gushed suddenly from his shoulder and he stumbled with the pain, almost falling. Elira gaped in horror at the sight, unable to move or even to gasp. All she could do was watch, frozen to the ground in an eternity of seconds.
A few seconds was all the boy needed. Taking Elira none too gently by the collar of her coat, he pulled her to her feet, bringing her face very close to his. And then he grinned, laughing pungently through his teeth. "I'm going to rip you apart," he hissed, his eyes dark and showing that he was more than ready to carry out his threat.
But a noise stopped him, making him turn his head. It was an unnatural sound, a low animalistic growl. Elira craned her neck to look as well but there wasn't any animal around. Only Vincent.
And then Vincent growled again.
The boy's hands slipped off of her as Vincent stood to his full height, the blood still pouring from his arm. His eyes matched the colour staining the ground beside him. What started as a growl in his throat turned into a sudden howl. And the changes began.
Elira stared in absolute and utter terror. What was happening? This had to be a dream. She was dreaming, right? Vincent's ears began to elongate even as fangs grew out of his mouth over his bottom lip. The white of his eyeballs was slowly engulfed with black and his pupil shrank until it disappeared within the red of his irises. He was thrust one way and then the other as wings sprouted suddenly from his shoulder blades, huge wings, like canopies, purplish-gray in colour. And then, he doubled over suddenly with an inhuman groan, dropping to one knee.
Elira was tempted to both run to him and run from him. But, she couldn't move. She could only watch, like the silent observer in a nightmare. And then, as suddenly as if she had been shown a picture, the pieces began to fall together. A curse, a horrible curse...worse than anything she dare imagine...far beyond what she could accept or forgive. A muffled sound of anguish came from Vincent as his body began to grow, to change. And yet, his clothing did not rip; it was ignored as grayish muscles bulged out of his arms. His hands, even the prosthetic, were changing into grotesque claws.
Claws that looked sharp enough to shred a shower curtain, rip through a mattress...
Elira felt the revelation like a blow to the head. No one had broken into his apartment. It had been he himself who had done the damage, after this horrible change had taken place. The tranquilizers...? It seemed that this was happening because the teenager had angered him beyond endurance. Perhaps he'd frantically swallowed half the bottle in an attempt to drug himself into a stupor strong enough to stop this...this transformation. To stop it before he totaled his apartment...
Or injured someone...
Elira looked to the boy beside her, seeing the horrified stupefaction on his face as he watched Vincent's body continue to change into something that looked like a gargoyle. Or a demon. He'd angered the wrong man. Elira pushed him suddenly away from her. Once he'd regained his footing, the boy looked slowly to her as if coming out of a trance, his eyes wide.
"Run," Elira told him. "Run for your life."
The boy just stood staring at her for a moment longer. And then he took off like a shot down the street away from the museum, his footsteps pounding like a driving heartbeat.
Vincent, or the creature that had been Vincent only moments before, raised his head at the sound. Elira caught her breath. Gone was the pale skin, the sharp angled face, the midnight hair. Everything she remembered and had learned to trust, and even maybe to care about despite Vincent's efforts to dissuade all attempts at friendship, had disappeared, had been replaced by the distorted features of a monster: the lipless, leering mouth, the jaggedly pointed teeth. And yet, she could not feel terror now, knowing it was him. She felt deep pity and compassion, almost to the point of shedding tears for him. This truly was a curse; she would probably have believed in fate as well if she had his lot.
Elira was jarred out of her thoughts as the creature suddenly used its powerful legs to propel itself upward, the huge wings opening reflexively as it came in contact with the air currents that rushed over the buildings. And then it turned to face the direction in which the boy was still running. After taking a moment to straighten itself, make itself streamlined, it took up pursuit, claws outstretched as it hovered forward, gaining speed with every passing second.
Elira couldn't let it happen. She ran after Vincent, ignoring all protests from her shin, but it soon became obvious that she would never catch up with him. A little out of breath, she stopped running to look after him desperately. With no other ideas, she inhaled deeply and forced out a scream. "Vincent!"
She wasn't really expecting any response from the creature since it looked so hell-bent on killing the horrified teenager who was still running, and now shrieking, down the street toward an intersection. So she was surprised when it righted itself abruptly in the air and turned to look at her through pupiless eyes.
Was it still Vincent? Did it even recognize her through the haze of rage that had brought it into being? It seemed to. Elira began to run again, watching the creature all the time. It kept its eyes on her as she approached, hovering gently, motionless, as if it were being plagued suddenly by a fit of indecision. And then, Elira saw an undefined expression cross its features. With a howl that sounded more like a wail of desolation than anything else, it turned from Elira and, affecting the position of its wings, rose on an air current and flew off over the sector.
The teenager was no longer in sight and Elira wasn't sure whether to be relieved that he was still alive, or disappointed that such a menace was still free to roam the streets. But there was no time to do anything regarding the assault. She could only hope that the police caught him one day at his tricks.
Right now, she had to follow Vincent, knowing already that he was headed for his apartment. It was his haven, where his small white safeguards waited within a pill bottle.
The next train making a stop at MiraCletus was scheduled to pull in at Odriam's station in five minutes, Elira read from the timetable posted on the ticket window. She fidgeted the entire time, able to picture the havoc Vincent was wreaking in his livingroom. She prayed fervently that he wouldn't be tempted to harm himself. She prayed to God, to fate, to any listening deity.
Please...please, have mercy on him...have mercy on me...please...