The Murder Of Willowstream

Ch.20. Granted A Feeling

The Highland was the most prestigious hotel in Willowstream. Standing at nearly twenty stories tall, it was just about the tallest building in the town, and with Willowstream being an ample location for tourists wishing to appreciate it's picturesque surroundings; it was never without busy foot traffic.

It even posted a doorman before it's immaculately kept, swivel front door; dressed in smart attire with white gloves and all, as if to give the impression of grandiose wealth and luxury. Naturally, it was owned by the Santana estate. This is where you came to stay if you wanted a place of comfort when visiting the town.

Alaric sat relaxed, his legs hanging over the precipice of the rooftop of the adjacent building. The cool temperature of the stone was seeping through his jeans, and coupled with the night time breeze that tousled at his immaculately kept hair, was a welcome coolness to the heat of todays events.

The sheer drop beneath him was nearly ten stories, and to most it would seem daunting to look down and see nothing but hard ground to catch you from the dizzying height. There was a time when Alaric feared such things. All things are born with two fears. The fear of falling, and the fear of something bigger than you. But Alaric lost fear for the former when the biggest thing he'd ever known was his father, and suddenly; falling didn't seem so bad. Comparatively so, when the worst that would come from him falling from most heights is an hour at most of pain.

The pain was what bade his curiosity most. In moments of contemplation, such of this, he became acutely aware of how little he felt of it. It was almost addictive, in it's own grim, manner. Nothing ever hurt enough. It took a lot to make him bleed, and even then it would be done with in a matter of seconds. Even the emotional sundering he felt at Yasmine's death, arguably the most painful thing he had ever experienced to memory, never quite scratched the itch that made him wonder if he really was just numb. Which wasn't right. It wasn't correct.

He upturned his face to the sky, breathing in the scent of the coming rain as he watched the small drift of wispy clouds beginning to block the quarter moon from view, before returning his gaze forward. As luck would have it: he was exactly in line with Marshal and Mark's room.

He wasn't watching out of some succinct voyeurism, no. That was much too callous for his taste. His primary concern was to check on Marshal, but he had somehow lost himself in his own reverie along the way.

Watching the two he couldn't help but feel a distinct spike of jealousy as he watched them in the awkward fumbling that was to be their third round of the night. All elbows and thumbs. It was caring and bright, filled with laughter, but most importantly: it was happy.

It wasn't a jealousy born of wanting Marshal for his own, because Alaric didn't. Although he'd be lying if he said he wasn't at least curious. Marshal was a good looking guy, and Alaric was incredibly interested in exactly how Merfolk blood differed to humans.

No, this jealous was born of his own doing. Alaric was a Vampire. He was violence and blood. His own first time, whether with a man or woman, was exactly that. Violent. It wasn't what this was. It wasn't mischievous giggles and blushing cheeks. It was a beastly rutting, just nearing the edge of a masochistic hunger for pain. To ravage inconsolably. To scratch that inconsolable itch that always seemed just out of reach, but would quieten down once the deed was done just enough to be ignored.

For the second time today, he found a dolorous pang of yearning, stretch his heart thin. He wanted what Marshal had. But monsters don't get happy endings. Monsters get slain.

Due to the recent murders: anyone under the age of eighteen had been restricted to a curfew. Although that didn't really matter for those of his age, who could just about pass for above the restriction at a glance. Not that Alaric had, had any issue navigating as an adult. The moment he'd had his growth spurt, which had shot him to six-foot, he'd been confidently able to manoeuvrer wherever he pleased.