𝖎𝖓 𝖜𝖍𝖎𝖈𝖍 𝖍𝖔𝖕𝖊 𝖒𝖎𝖐𝖊𝖆𝖑𝖘𝖔𝖓 𝖎𝖘 actually hope stilinski
and lives in beacon hills, unknowing of her real
heritage, until her mother and father and a crazed
family of original vampires arrive at her h...
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WARNING . . . this chapter contains themes of violence
"LET'S PLAY A GAME, MATE, SHALL WE?" HIS HAND ROSE TO THE VICTIM'S NECK, tracing the outlines of his throat before gripping the flesh harshly. The sound of jagged pants as his sufferer flailed around frantically, lungs searching for a brief inhale of air, filled the culprit with unbridled joy. He grinned, tightening the throat's circulation.
Trembling fingers, weak and paling, rose to free the victim of his fate, but the nimble limbs staggered around loosely, as though he had no real control over his own body. His eyes were wide now, a brown hue surrounded by glimpses of red veins, but he struggled to keep them open. To look into the Devil's eye was to manifest sacrifice to Hell. Everyone knew that. So his gaze flitted to everything around him, searching desperately for the hold of the Lord to save him.
"Sounds to me, brother, like he doesn't want to participate." Another voice jousted, and there were two hands gazing the mortal's peeling skin now, one much softer, more curious, than the other. Their palms graced the end of his hands before appearing at his face, and with the hold came a set of gleeful eyes, "Oh well, it's a shame really."
The murderer chuckled quietly, amused. The chuckle was raw, vibrating through the victim and the church that they stood in, but equally as taunting. His legs, lifted a little off the ground, wiggled in an attempt for freedom. "What should we do with him? He clearly does not want to hear our proposition. He is not of any worth to us. How should I kill him?" The question resonated through the silence.
The pants grew louder. Behind him, the dark figure who had tugged him from the streets of New Orleans was leaning on his shoulder and, inches from his face, was a newer man, who clasped his shrinking cheekbones in a manner that could only be described as utter joy. He couldn't distinguish between them, and their anonymity scared him the most. It meant he would not get the justice he so deserved.
"We should hang him upside down off the church balcony and let the blood drain from his organs. Drop..." The man got closer to the victim, as if tasting his last breath brought him a sense of unfathomable happiness, "by drop." One finger came to hook the crying male's jaw.
"If you want to be the one to clean up the mess, then by all means, go ahead. I don't think the Priest will be happy if he comes here and finds his new rug tainted by the blood of a man who likes to kidnap little children, now will he?"
