Chapter Nine: Let Sleeping Demons Lie
by thelittletree
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 didn't miss another day. Elira almost wished a couple of times that, just once more, he wouldn't show up so that she could run to his apartment and have a few of the mysteries solved. Because she had a feeling that Vincent was never going to tell her what had happened to make him take those pills, or what had happened to his apartment, assuming he knew. She'd entertained the thought at first that maybe he was a hunted man and that the people 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 make his death look like a suicide.
But, her mind had argued moments later, if that was 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.
It took a week of battering her brains in vain before she came to the conclusion that she would never figure out what had happened on her own. So she 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 friendship at the risk of chasing him away altogether.
She'd said she was willing to take the risk. And what did she have to lose? He was gone in all but body now.
But, if she was going to approach him again it would have to be subtle. So, after Vincent left in the evenings, she began taking the later train to MiraCletus with 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 couldn't run away.
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 wanted an opinion on whether or not the restoration of some very old guns was possible, Elira took less than a second to decide who would come with her. After all, Vincent Valentine was full of mysteries. Who knew what he had harbored in that barred and locked mind?
Vincent didn't argue when she told him that he would be accompanying her to Odriam. He didn't say anything. He nodded once without 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 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 led the way onto the train. 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've been an executive for some corporation, Elira found a remaining seat beside a teenager. He was a tall, skinny 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. "Hello, 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 eighteen. His tone of voice was mockingly friendly and something about his expression made her uncomfortable. She wished suddenly that 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, not wanting to answer, but also not wanting to create 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 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 nervously in her seat. 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 fuck me?" Then he 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 a few seats down, but she dared not move too obviously. If the teenager 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 a laugh. But maybe he was willing to injure, rape, or kill.
In any 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.
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, we'll 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 was doing her best to remain calm. Panicking now would not help her.
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 that he was still seated, his eyes downcast as if he was going on to Penora. She felt a wave of relief. He'd waited. But did he know about her situation? She wanted to cough, or clear her throat, or even 'accidentally' kick Vincent as the boy forced her past him, 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 so that Vincent could see the situation for himself.
But would Vincent do anything?
This thought almost choked her into giving a fearful sob. He wanted her to leave him alone. Maybe he didn't care anymore what happened to her. If this boy took her away, it would likely ensure that he would never be bothered by her again.
It didn't matter. She would cough as she passed and at least alert him to her predicament. And then, whatever happened, happened. She had to put up some kind of a fight to this. She would not go gently...
Vincent didn't look up as she walked past. But, just as she was just getting ready to cough, the sudden sound of movement distracted her. A second later, she was abruptly jerked around as the hand holding her wrist yanked her back. Then the fingers were ripped away and she found herself looking into the bulging eyes of the teenager, a foot above 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 and 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 throat. For his part, the teenager was gasping and choking, clawing desperately at the golden hand in an effort to pry it loose. But Vincent didn't let go. For a long few moments he stood like that, unmoving. Elira was starting to worry that Vincent didn't intend to release the boy at all when he finally thrust his arm forward, propelling the teenager onto his back along the aisle. The switchblade skittered away under the seats.
The teenager lay there for a moment, stunned, before he struggled to push himself up, his eyes wide and staring at Vincent as if he was looking death in the face. He drew lungful after painful lungful of air, one hand clamped around his neck where Vincent had been gripping him.
Vincent turned around suddenly and Elira saw something burning in his eyes that she had never seen before. It frightened her, as did the realization that he could've killed that boy. Peripherally, she noticed the astonished and fearful stares of the passengers in the car. And after a moment, she found that she was becoming a little afraid of him, too. Dressed in black with his hair hanging as wildly as it ever had, his red eyes bright in his pale face, he looked a little demonic.
But this was the same Vincent, the one who, once upon a time, had given those tiny smiles, the one she had learned to care about.
His eyes were doing a quick search of her face and he was suddenly the old Vincent again. Elira could see a question in his gaze, and...shame? Resolutely, she wiped all traces of fright from her features. He had saved her life. There was no shame in that. But she wondered what she'd seen in his eyes when he'd turned. What had almost surfaced in dealing with that teenager?
Vincent abruptly broke off his inspection and looked up, making motions with his hands to indicate that he wanted her to get off the train. She complied.
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 swiftly 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 though he probably wouldn't tell her, but she couldn't keep from asking. "Vincent, what's wrong?"
She was not disappointed. He gave no answer. She sighed in resignation. "Well, anyway, thank you. You probably just saved my life."
He gave a small scoff that puffed his breath out in a cloud of steaming air and stopped walking. Then, looking desperate and intent, he leaned in toward her and began talking quietly. "I know you saw it, Elira. I know you saw it in my eyes. Don't even try to deny it." His gaze was penetrating, as if he was daring her to contradict him.
Elira frowned in confusion. "Saw what? 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 quickly shook his head. "That's not what I mean. You saw the look that said I had been ready to break his neck. I know you did. You were afraid of me." Something like pain flickered across his expression.
Elira rolled 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 my hunger for the kill."
Elira took a breath but could not deny it, remembering the way he'd looked.
When she didn't reply to him, Vincent withdrew and dropped his eyes. "I'm dangerous, Elira. You have to understand that, and you have to leave me alone. I hurt people."
Elira raised her chin. "Vincent, don't talk like that. People get angry. It happens. Maybe it's something you have to deal with but that doesn't mean you have to cut yourself off from everyone."
But Vincent was shaking his head again. "Elira, there are things you don't know about me, things you can't know. I've been cursed by fate for the things I've done."
Elira scowled. "Vincent, there's no such thing as fate!"
Vincent looked at her suddenly and there was an expression of longing and pain so vivid on his face that Elira almost wanted to apologize. But Vincent was already speaking. "Fate does exist, Elira. Nothing else explains it. You're like her, but I let her die. So you'll die, too..."
Elira was becoming worried. He had never been this worked up before. "Vincent, what are you talking about? Fate's just a word we use when we're afraid that something bad is going to happen. It's not real." Maybe she was afraid to give her heart away because of what had happened to Eagan, because of the fear that the same thing would happen again. But it was still just fear. Nothing more.
Vincent stepped up to her again and his expression was hard to hide what he was feeling. "Maybe you can believe that, but I can't. For failing to protect the only person I'd ever loved, fate cursed me. And now, history is repeating itself. I can't become close to you because fate will find a way to kill you."
He was practically talking about fate like it was sentient being. "How would fate do that? An act of God? This is where the risk comes in. We're both just afraid the same thing will happen to us that happened before. That's what it is. It's not fate!"
"Elira, it can and will happen again. As punishment, fate has made me into the thing that will kill you. Unless you leave me alone, *I* will be your death." His eyes were pleading, willing her to believe.
But Elira couldn't believe. There was no such thing as fate. The fear of losing another person had just affected Vincent so badly that he could no longer see past it. How could he be her death?
And then, suddenly, she began to fear those things that she didn't, couldn't know about him.
Vincent turned from her and began walking along the deserted sidewalk as if he hadn't said anything. Elira hurried to catch up with him. "Vincent, what has fate made you into? What makes you so dangerous?"
But Vincent didn't answer.
"Vincent, tell me. Please. It won't change the way I think of you."
"It's nothing you have ever had to deal with before. You don't 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 you think is so wrong with you."
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 brought them closer, and, instead of answering questions, it had only created more of them, and these ones unsettled her. The morning was suddenly not nearly as pleasant as she'd thought.
The museum was a two-story building surrounded by a tall, thick wall of white rock and closed off at the entrance with a high iron gate. Elira ended up spending 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. Irritated, the guard finally used the intercom to speak to the curator and found out, to his displeasure, that Elira was telling the truth. It took every ounce of her self-control to smile at the man as she entered 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 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 in her favorite overalls and jacket, and she was suddenly very aware of her unprimped curls and her freckles. She had considered dressing up at first, but had then decided against it. She was Elira Maddison, just trying to eke out a living doing the thing she loved. And anyway, she thought a moment later, the curator had hired her for her talents and not her splendor. Odriam had its own gunsmiths, after all, who were probably much classier. 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 at this great collection of works.
After a few moments, she allowed herself a glance at Vincent. Obviously not a strong connoisseur of the arts, he was staring straight ahead at an undefined point, as rigid as if he were a soldier in ranks. In other circumstances, Elira might've been tempted to tease him about his posture. Instead, she looked away again, trying to seem absorbed.
The curator, an elderly, heavy-set 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 Mr. 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. It's wonderful to meet you. I am Mr. Geddes, the curator of this museum. And you are?"
"Vincent Valentine."
Mr. Geddes' eyes took in Vincent's rather dark and disheveled appearance, prosthetic and all, in one quick sweep without any reaction. Elira was 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 a 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 became like the proverbial child in the candy store. She'd dreamed sometimes of visiting a museum like this, though she'd never really had the time. Delighted, she looked around, hoping to see examples of the weapons in the gunsmith's ancient book. And then she turned to see if Vincent was as touched by this sight as she was.
Vincent's attention seemed to have been captured by a certain gun, 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 an 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."
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 time 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 knew this gun? Or, more astonishingly, 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 good-bye 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 they had to leave, 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 had lifted; looking at the guns had nearly made her forget what had happened earlier that morning. She was about to ask Vincent if he would come with 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, scraping her palms on the cement. At the same time, she heard Vincent give a sudden grunt.
When she looked up, it was to see Vincent hunched over a little 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. Vincent gripped it and, clenching his teeth, yanked the dagger out and threw it to the ground. Elira winced at the small spurt of blood that followed it.
Obnoxious laughter filled the air. Elira lifted her eyes from Vincent and searched the area in both rage and fear for the source. 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, though his eyes were filled with anger when they met Elira's. "That was aimed for you, bitch!" he shouted from where he stood, half a block away. "If that freak hadn't pushed you out of the way, you'd be dead now!" His words dissolved into another fit of wrathful laughter.
Vincent took a step toward her and held out his hand to help her up. There was blood on the fingers of his glove, but she took his offered grip anyway. "Are you all right?" she asked him, trying to get a look at his arm.
"I'm fine," he told her shortly, brushing her off. "Let's get out of here." He was still holding her hand as he started walking and Elira felt the tingle of contact despite her fear. But then Vincent looked back, and a second later Elira heard the running footsteps behind them. The teenager wasn't finished with them. Vincent looked angrier than she'd ever seen him as he released her hand and urged her behind him.
"I'm warning you, leave us alone," Vincent told the boy.
The teenager slowed down and stopped a few feet from them. Elira could see bruise marks starting on his neck where Vincent had gripped him. But he was grinning and pulling a pistol out of the top of his pants. "Fuck you, man. I want your money."
Elira was just about to reach for her wallet when Vincent stepped forward. The boy leveled the gun at him but, before he could fire it, Vincent absently knocked his arm away and the shot went wild. At the sound of the retort, Elira ducked with a cry. Oh god, they were going to die! When she next looked up, Vincent was grappling with the teenager, a permanent grimace on his face as the boy gripped his upper arm where the blade had gone in. Elira could see the growing blood stain on Vincent's coat and the teenager's fingers were smudged crimson. And then Vincent pushed the boy away. That's when Elira noticed that something was wrong with Vincent's eyes. They were completely red. Even his pupils were gone.
"Leave us!" Vincent said harshly and a shudder seemed to go through him.
But the teenager still had his gun, and he leveled it again at Vincent. "Gimme your money!" he demanded, though now he seemed a little less sure of himself. Then he swung the gun toward Elira. "Or I'll kill her!"
Elira felt every inch of her skin prickle as she stared at the gun. Her mind was screaming at her to run, *run*, but she felt frozen to the ground. Before the teenager could do anything, however, there was a sound. A snarl to be exact, like you'd expect to hear from an animal. And, before the boy could turn the gun again, Vincent was on him. He pulled the gun roughly out of the boy's grip and threw it behind him. Then he grabbed the front of the teenager's shirt and shook him. "Do you hear me? Get out of here before..." He didn't get to finish. His words were abruptly cut off as he doubled-up, groaning. And then, what had started as a groan turned into a screaming howl.
The boy stumbled away, his eyes wide and horrified as Vincent began to *change*. Within the space of a few seconds, his ears had elongated and his teeth had grown into terrible fangs. With another moan, a heart-wrenchingly human sound, Vincent got to his feet and Elira saw him stumble as he was thrust one way and then the other as huge blood-black wings, like canopies, sprouted out of his shoulder blades. This had to be a dream. She was dreaming, right? Like the observer in a nightmare, Elira couldn't move or speak, even when Vincent turned to look right at her. It was a sight she would never forget. For a moment it was still him, desperate and frightened, trying to beg her with his eyes to do something. Help him? Get out of there? She couldn't tell. And then he was moaning again and falling to one knee, clutching his abdomen.
Then, as suddenly as if she had been shown a picture, Elira saw the pieces begin to fall together. A punishment from fate, something far beyond what she could accept or forgive. There was another muffled sound of anguish from Vincent and his body began to grow. 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. And the sleeping pills? Had he taken them to drug himself into a stupor strong enough to stop this...this transformation?
Before he could injure someone?
Elira looked to the boy and saw the horrified stupefaction on his face as he watched Vincent continue to change into something that looked like it had come straight from hell. The very presence it exuded was evil. She had no drugs with her. There was no way to stop him. Desperately, she stood and, running up to the teenanger, pushed him suddenly. He stumbled and turned to her slowly as if he was 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 had disappeared and been replaced with the distorted features of a monster: the lipless, leering mouth, the jaggedly pointed teeth, the horrible eyes. And yet, she could not feel terror now, knowing it was him. This was what he'd been trying to tell her. She imagined she would believe in fate, too, if she was him.
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 took up the pursuit of the teenager, swooping downward toward the street, gaining speed with every passing second.
Elira couldn't let it happen. She ran after Vincent though it was obvious that she would never catch up with him. After a few seconds, she stopped running to look after him desperately. With no other ideas, she inhaled deeply and forced out a scream. "Vincent!"
She didn't know if she should expect any response since the creature looked so hell-bent on killing the boy who was now screaming down the street toward an intersection. So she was surprised when it halted in midair and, hovering, 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, motionless except for the twitching of its wings, 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.
She had to follow him. She was almost positive that he was headed for his apartment, where those small white safeguards waited for him in a pill bottle. The next train making a stop at MiraCletus, she read from the timetable, was scheduled to pull in at Odriam's station in five minutes. She fidgeted the entire time, able to picture the havoc Vincent was wreaking in his living room. She prayed fervently that he wouldn't be tempted to harm himself. She prayed to God, to fate, to any listening deity.
'Please...please, keep him safe until I get there...and then, while you're at it, keep me safe, too...'