Deliverance For an LJSanta deadbeat. By Liz (Seastar). The waters of the Atlantic churned tumultuously against the beach, creating a cacophony of sound; Nature rioted that night, the winds whipping shrilly against the coastline. The elements seemed to converge in chaotic motion. A winter storm was quickly approaching, and the smell of snow permeated the air, though the sky above was cloudless, black as ink. A lone figure stood on the beach. The biting winds ravaged his clothing, rippling his woolen trench coat about him as if it were mere parchment. The silky black ends of his hair swept about his forehead, and against his cheekbones. Neither the wind, nor the cold could harm the young man, though--these things had ceased to affect him in any significant manner centuries before. The idea of destruction weighed heavily on his mind. The destructive power of the elements had always left him somewhat awestruck, while so many other things failed to affect him. He thought of the destruction he had visited on so many; centuries of killings; blood enough to quench the thirst of the entire Redfern clan. He moved nearly imperceptibly, then, cringing with shame at the deeds he'd done and the bargains he'd made. The violence and excess of the existence he had perpetrated now sickened him. He'd renounced that life and left those ways behind him months ago, when he'd found his soulmate, Rashel. Rashel, he thought wistfully, remnants of prayers uncoiling within his mind, If only you could truly know my sins, and forgive me my trespasses. He had found truth and unconditional love and compassion in her arms, and renounced the life he'd lived before for her, vowing that as long as she lived, he would never go back to those ways. Her strident dedication to helping others was something he'd never seen in anybody he had ever let near him. He'd lived so long believing that to survive one must kill or be killed... While it would be easy for him to say that the days when he gloried in human gore were over, the wounds were still fresh, raw. It hadn't been a year since the last killing. ********* Memories of that night--moments the old Quinn had relished--now haunted him. Ash and he had made a habit of hunting together. The camaraderie between the old made-vampire, and the lamia boy had been strong--fired by a shared dedication to the rules of the Night World, and a common passion for excess and carnality. The white-blond and the midnight haired one had been kindred killers. It had been Valentine's Day, and the two had been lounging in the back of a small, run-down club in San Francisco. It was small, all black windows and smoke-stained windows. "Angelwings," read the sign above the door, painted in black and lavender spray. While it had initially attracted an older, "New-age" crowd, it was most often frequented by young teenaged humans who longed to leave the day world behind them for--what they thought--was a taste of the night. Aleister Crowley and Scott Cunningham paperbacks were sold alongside giant cups of glorified coffee. When the girl walked in, both vampires knew that she would be their next shared victim. Fair, waif-like and yet supple, she perched on a stool and ordered a cup of coffee, nearly inches away from where the two cold ones lounged in a booth. Before an hour had passed from the time she'd entered the club, she would be walking up the flight of stairs to what she thought was a flat that her two companions shared. Quinn had always had a penchant for drawing things out with these girls. Their youth, and their naiveté had been alluring to him, and he savored their fear and panic when they finally realized what he was. He'd stripped her clothes off, slowly, torturously, savoring in her excitement and apprehension as her arousal grew. He and Ash would then strip one another and take turns with her, pummeling her tight body until she grew slack from fatigue. Ash and Quinn would then begin the real games, running their fingernails along the curves of the young girl's body until they drew blood. Frightened by the strength with which her lovers were manipulating her body, fear welled up within her like the droplets of blood that were collecting on her skin. She began to struggle violently when she looked into her lovers' faces, and saw only mirror-like reflections of light in their eyes. Their games would continue for hours, until both Ash and Quinn's naked bodies were liberally smeared with the girl's blood, and she lay, cold on the floor, murmuring the prayers of the rosary until her heart finally stopped. ********* It was nearing daybreak, and the sky was clouding over. The storm would hit the shore by nine. Quinn longed to be beside Rashel, longed to feel the heat of her body next to his, and to hear the smooth rhythms of her sleeping breath. He craved the comfort of their entwined limbs during lovemaking, the way they fit as though made for one another. He craved the way Rashel filled his mind, pushing out the nightmares that lurked otherwise. Since he had found Rashel, the girl's face haunted him when he lay down to sleep. The image of her whitening eyes was always accompanied by her final murmurings, always faint, but never mute: "And deliver us from evil, Amen." Back to the main page. Disclaimer: the characters, fictional settings, and universes created by L. J. Smith are copyright © Lisa J. Smith, Daniel Weiss Associates, Inc. and their affiliates. This fan-created site, along with the stories it houses, means no infringement upon any trademark, copyright, or other legal binding. This archive claims no rights to any of the stories collected here.