A Toy Called Envy - 2. Blood And Pain

So this ramshackle apartment was my home for the forseeable future. Wonderful. Urine stench, peeling paint, and creaking floorboards. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine my tidy, clean room as I dropped my designer dufflebag on the floor and listened to the non-silence reigning in this crap-heap of a housing code violation. It didn't help.

Everything about the third story flat disgusted me, but the windows pointed towards the little house across the street, and it was empty. Actually, most of the flats were empty, with very few exceptions. I didn't have much of a choice but to set up here, not if I wanted to do Siccu's bidding. Which I really wanted to do. God, how I wanted to please him! I still hated it. Hated Siccu for making me do this, for forcing me to keep an eye on the one person I wanted to stab with a silver fork. Right in the eye.

It couldn't be helped. I muttered curses under my breath as I laid out a big plastic tarp and set up my cot and sleeping bag. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do. I wasn't perfect like this, but if this was what Siccu wanted from me in exchange for eternity, for his affection, I would comply. Since I had no way of knowing how long I would be in this dump, I had brought five sets of fresh clothes appropriate for spy work, binoculars, and a camera to record the goings-on when I was sleeping. I was set, and wished I wasn't.

Better get it over with. I disinfected the single creaky chair with spray and wipes and dragged it close to the window of my choice. Just to make sure my pants would stay clean, I padded it with a plastic wrapped cushion and sat down, twisting and turning until I liked my pose. If this was how I would spend my time, I'd at least make it look good.

#

Every day, I watched them. Every day, Siccu called to check in and forced me to recount what I had seen. When they ate (twice a day for Noom, an impressive seven times a day for the little twink), how long Noom left the house on any given day (one hour, couldn't be conductive to his merc job, but hey, newly turned vampire), how much they fucked (five times a day, god knew how they did it), anything curious (like the boytoy's overly enthusiastic fitness regimen) and if I'd noticed anyone lurking around the house.

I hadn't, but the question caught my interest. How come Siccu thought someone besides me had a reason to lurk? I could hardly ask him directly, but it made me wonder.

The worst thing about my assignment was the fucking though. So, so much fucking. They went at it like ravenous wolves, the twink often screaming with need and Noom manhandling him to the point where furniture broke and things shattered. The noise reached such incredible levels, I wondered how the neighbors could sleep. I certainly couldn't, and not just because of the lusty groans and the hard slaps of flesh against flesh. I couldn't sleep because I got hard every time. Because my hands itched every time. And when they were done and I finally sank into oblivion, my mind spun images of me under Noom, of me screaming and twitching and scraping nails over tables, holding on to desks, bed posts, gushing precome and coming in violent bursts. Bombarded me with images of his muscles glistening with a layer of musky sweat, bulging and undulating as he grabbed my neck, forced my head down with that damned confident smirk on his damned chiseled face, that darkness in his eyes that betrayed thoughts, ideas, I hadn't even dreamed of...

I stopped watching them when I caught myself drowsing in the chair from lack of sleep, but the echo of their groans still haunted me, kept me awake out of fear of dreaming. Dreaming of Noom, my arch-nemesis. A hot poker to the gut couldn't have pained me more than waking up with a wet, Noom-caused mess in my pants.

I managed to hide my reactions from Siccu for a while, which was no small feat. When he started to ask again and again if I had seen his child feed, though, I stumbled over my tongue. I came clean then. Not about my reaction to their copulations, but about my looking away.

"Envy," he chided when I was done making a complete fool of myself. His voice made satin out of my name, soft and shiny and slick. My throat constricted.

"I will do better."

"I know you will."

Such a blank statement, so little feeling behind so few words. His displeasure tore at my guts, and suddenly I was that sixteen-year-old kid again, begging for his attention.

"I have recorded everything, though," I started, and hesitated at hearing my pleading voice. The scent of burnt skin and feces welled up and dissipated, and a distant, shrill voice in my head hissed, 'you stink of it!'

Siccu breathed a soft sound of amusement. I could picture his serene smile easily. "Then you'd better watch the tapes and find out when and where he feeds, no?"

Bile tickled my throat. "Yes, sir."

Then I hung up, stumbled off my tarp-marked sanctum of cleanliness, and vomited into a broken, grime-stained washing basin, groaning and heaving until nothing but spittle dribbled from my chin.

Fucking bitch-ass punk piece of crap Noom.

#

The tapes gave me nothing. More fucking, more cooking, more fights and hissy-fits, but no hint as to where Noom sated his newly awoken bloodlust. I alternated between watching them in real life and watching them on tape, but neither view gave me any indication of what was really going on. The thought of telling Siccu 'I don't know' made my empty stomach queasy, but what was I supposed to do?

Something rash, of course. I had never dressed for subterfuge or stealth missions before, and black was not my color. It made me look pale, ghoulish, but black clothes sure would have come in handy this night. In the end, I went with a charcoal gray sweater and blue jeans, and I made even that sloppy mess work somehow. Perks of being a model. It was all in the gait, the arrogance, the je ne sais quoi. I mastered both and had the latter. See? Arrogance.

I ended up lurking in front of the house, tucked into shadows as I waited for a good moment to peek into the ground level window. The skulking around made me unduly nervous and I shifted way too much, unaccustomed to the necessary pose, mien, moves, but I was nothing if not a fast learner.

The persistent spring breeze had tampered down somewhat, more a whistle than a howl now. It assaulted me with the stench of gutters, car exhaust and unwashed bodies, as if the weaker gusts somehow had a greater capacity for collecting and carrying the most vile of scents. And through the stink of the streets, the breeze also carried the chatter coming from the house towards me. Their laughter, Noom's rough voice, his boytoy's nightingale chirp, the scratchy recording of 'Bela Lugosi's Dead' scuttling along on off-tune guitar riffs and off-beat drums,... Their happiness made me want to rip my ears off.

'No, stay away! You stink of it!'

I gnashed my teeth against the jabbing pain in my chest and corrected my pose, the tilt of my hips, the line of my neck, angle of my shoulders, making sure I slouched artfully against the dirty wall by the kitchen window. Maybe I couldn't fight the turmoil in my head, but I could damn well make sure I kept it hidden from prying eyes. And I could make it look good. If I moved my leg just a little, shifted my weight so I could--

The house suddenly fell quiet.

I tensed and looked around for a hiding spot to slither into, but it was too late. The window above me creaked, the music got louder, and a black haired head poked out into the night air to look down at me. I pushed off the wall and scrambled back two steps, hoping against hope I hadn't been noticed. That I'd pass for a well-dressed bum just taking a breather. That he'd find me too charming to go after me.

The twink's eyes followed me. His nostrils flared.

I froze like a deer caught in headlights.

His pupils twitched and he snarled through a tiny gap between his lips, sharp and rattling and catlike, moving forward until his hands rested on the outer edge of the windowsill, ready to slither through like a snake. Somewhere behind him, I heard a magazine snap into a gun. Heavy, booted steps towards the front door.

I whirled around and ran.

#

Houses flitted by as I darted down the street leading away from both Noom's dump and the apartment complex that held my spying equipment, wind pulling at my carefully styled hair. I didn't worry about me pooping out halfway through or going too slow, I was trim and fit like a race horse. But I had seen the merc's muscles. I had heard the treadmill whirring beneath the boytoy's feet. He was a sprinter, and he didn't tire easily. The odds were even in the athletics department, but I had no deeper knowledge about the streets, the corners, shortcuts, the district in general. Running was a good way to keep a body in shape and I did a fair share of it every day. But running on a treadmill couldn't compare to sprinting through dirty streets and around sharp-edged corners, trying not to slip on puddles, wet newspapers or worse things. And my treadmill regimen hadn't prepared me for the way my heart tried to leap out of my throat, or the cramping of my bladder as it considered releasing some of its freight at the thought of getting caught.

I took every chance I got to look back and see if they were still following me. Stupid, but I had to know. I couldn't stand not knowing, couldn't bear the thought of running away like a headless chicken when nobody was actually chasing me. But they were, of course they were. Noom was a good twenty feet behind me, lumbering along like a plow cart horse, slow but steady, hand weighed down by the Beretta in his white-knuckled fist. His bright blond mohawk stood up proudly and unimpressed by his heavy steps, his rugged face a mask of sadistic glee. The twink was nowhere to be seen, but he had been right there when I'd last looked. Not that it mattered; the twink was unarmed, whereas the madman stubbornly trailing me was, very much so.

My sensibly chosen, pale mocha and dust beige Maison Margielas were soaked through and splattered with street dirt; I had chosen them for style reasons, and expensive as they were, they hadn't been designed with parkour in mind. I finally stepped into a pile of dog shit and lost my grip. Instead of flitting around that last corner, I careened sideways and slammed into a smog-brown cinder block wall. I bounced off it with a sharp thud, fell backwards, and tumbled through a small, flattened heap of leaves and crumpled coffee-to-go mugs. My head spun with throbbing pain and I felt warm liquid trickle down my forehead, but for once in my life, I spared no thought towards my appearance. My mind was solidly on the gunslinger jogging around the corner.

He tried to point his gun at me, but I didn't let him finish the move. I jumped and darted off again, dirty water--please let it be just water--dripping off my sleeve as I built up speed again--

The twink jumped off a ten-foot wall next to me like it was nothing. My scream was cut off as he slammed into me and sent me tumbling across the street, over curbstones and manhole covers and against a car. The impact with the unforgiving tire drove all the air out of my lungs and sent a piercing, sharp pain through my chest. God, that hurt. The pain was all-encompassing, zig-zagging through my body like a bush fire. I would have screamed if I could have, but breathing was out of the question. As was running.

Not that I would have gotten far.

"What have we got here, then?"

I wanted to look up at Noom, but the pain was too much. He didn't help things either. His boot connected solidly with my stomach, right between my hands already clutching that body part.

I coughed, then I vomited. And then I squirmed through the mess because my body told me I'd die if I stopped moving.

"He's too pretty for a thief. Or an assassin. You sure he was spying?" That from the twink, god bless his simple little mind.

"He's too stupid for an assassin, but yes, absolutely sure."

His next kick grazed my cheek and hit my shoulder. The steel-toed boot sent another shock wave of searing heat through my already over-sensitized body, but I just grunted and flopped over to hide against the car side, or maybe crawl beneath it. I had no air left to scream.

Noom wouldn't have it. "Oh no, you don't--" He grabbed my collar and pulled me up like I weighed nothing, then threw me against the side of the car. My clammy, bloody hands scrambled for grip over the old, dented metal, but I stilled when I felt something cold, hard, and decidedly too muzzle-like push against the back of my head. "Freeze," he ordered. His voice was void of humor.

I froze.

Hands tapped across my waist, then my ass, and I sucked in air to protest. The muzzle disappeared, then the butt of a gun met my head with a sharp cracking sound and I saw stars. Only Noom's grip on my collar kept me upright as I tried not to faint, fingernails screeching across the car roof. The stubborn, grabby hands kept going until they found my wallet like nothing had happened.

"Othello LaBrocha," the twink read out loud in that sultry, toffee-thick voice of his. Laughed. Threw my license away. It clicked against the car window on its way down. "Obviously fake. You weren't even trying with that one." True. The leathery rustling and card-clicking continued. "Now this looks more promising," he muttered. "What does a street walker like you do with a bunch of Aurora Records business cards?"

I closed my eyes and swallowed bile. At least the world stopped spinning so much. Noom shook me and shoved his gun against my head again. Hard. "Speak."

"How would I know?" I muttered. A stalling tactic, nothing more, and not the brightest one. My mind was wrapped in cotton and razorblades.

Noom huffed. "Because they're in your wallet, moron."

The twink shuffled to my side and looked me up and down. He clicked his tongue. "Now that is interesting. What is a streetwalker doing with thousand dollar shoes and four-hundred dollar pants?" He hesitated, leaned closer. "Is that a Versace sweater?"

Rich boy obviously knew his brands. We could have been such good friends in another reality. Goddamnit. I nodded faintly.

"How much do they go for nowadays?" Noom sounded intrigued. And a little appalled at the amount of money his boyfriend rattled off so casually.

"About one, one point five k."

Now that, I couldn't tolerate. "One point eight," I ground out. Noom slapped the back of my head.

"No mouthing off, I haven't decided if you're gonna live yet." A short pause, then he tightened his grip. "Now, we finished with the dress talk? Good. Tell me who sent you to spy on us."

"Fuck you," I coughed. I regretted the words the moment I spoke them, but I could hardly take them back now.

Noom snarled against my neck. "Fine," he spit, and the pressure against my head disappeared. Then he grabbed my arm, turned it, and twisted. The crack of breaking bones was nothing against my scream, but he shut me up with a hand across my drool-flecked mouth. I felt his calm breath tickle my neck as tears leaked out of my eyes.

And he froze. Sniffed. Leaned forward, closer to my neck, and sniffed again. An inhuman growl trickled out of his throat, utterly enraged.

"I know that scent!"

I tried to get a word in, I really tried, but there was nothing but his fists, and his boots, and his inhuman, hissing growls, until the street reverberated with the sounds of flesh hitting flesh and blood spilling against concrete and stone in arcs and globs.

He was killing me, right here, in this dirty alley, and there was nothing I could do.

When he stopped, I was actually surprised. Why was I still breathing? Why hadn't he ended me already? It took me a moment to realize he hadn't stopped attacking, but that he was now fighting against his boyfriend in his quest to finish the job on me. His little twink boytoy was clinging to his back like a monkey, hands twisting his head to the side as he threw himself this way and that, ruining his balance until he staggered back.

Everything hurt. Each breath a stab through my chest, each pulse of my heart a line of fire through mangled arteries and veins, each movement a twitch of searing agony through muscles, bones, mind. I couldn't move my right leg. My left arm was broken, as were most of my ribs. Blood drooled out of my split lips and the dozens of cuts across my body. Both of my eyes worked hard on swelling shut. But still, I had to look. I had to look at them. At their fight.

Boytoy didn't stand a chance against him. Nobody but another vampire could have. But then, Kel didn't try to, once Noom's attention moved away from me. As soon as that happened, his grip changed from aggression to lust, and he rubbed himself all over his fledgling vampire boyfriend. That stupid little twat. It was almost like he wanted to get bitten.

I groaned, twisting and turning despite the pain raging through my body. It wasn't my first time getting beaten up, but it was the first time it escalated to the point where I couldn't run away afterward. Noom's fangs extended with a soft, wet 'snick' sound, pierced skin, made the twink moan with ecstasy. He'd be dead soon and that I'd be next.

They tumbled, entwined as they were, clipping the car that was my shelter, rattling a merely decorative fence, impacting into the wall off to the side. Noom sucked, Kel groaned, and I prayed to god that some miracle would happen and see me rescued before he sucked the love of his life dry. It always happened with the young ones. It always happened with the blood rage. Noom had both, youth and rage, and nothing to keep him from getting unhinged.

I crawled away slower than a snail, whimpering with every inch I gained. Left bloody smears behind me. And my wallet with the business cards that carried my name. From up close, the street looked even dirtier, strewn with pebbles and bottle caps and cigarette buds and shit. It wasn't what I had imagined my last impression of the world to be. I hadn't imagined I'd ever have a last impression of this world at all, since I planned on never dying in the first place. Even beauty and perfection seemed trivial next to looming death. Who'd have thought.

Kel screamed his orgasm, and I knew my time was up. Knew I wouldn't get away, but I still had to try. I made it a whole two feet before a booted foot stomped down on my back and pinned me where I was.

I whimpered wetly and scrunched my eyes shut. This was it.

"I'm sorry, but he doesn't look like an almighty beast," the twink said, his cheap pants rustling as he picked up my wallet.

I gasped and hurt myself doing it. He was still alive?

"He doesn't. But he smells exactly like the creature that attacked me," Noom growled, still sounding angry, if calmer than before.

How the fuck had they not killed each other?

The twink shuffled at the sound of police sirens closing in on our position. "Time's up. Either kill him or don't, but we have to run," he said. He sounded cold and practical and not very twinky.

Why wasn't he lying dead in a ditch, drained and used up like the other poor sods who ran into a hungry young vampire? Why did he stink of sex and euphoria and all the violent happiness in the world?

Noom growled and crouched down on me. His knee bore into my bruised back as he lowered himself to whisper against the back of my head.

"We've got your info now. We've got your sc--We know what you look like. You tell that son of a bitch that I'm coming for him."

Then they were gone. I still fought to breathe, but I had a reason to live now. I had to solve the mystery of the immortal twink. I wanted to kill Noom, and now I knew what angle I'd have to use. Both against him, and against Siccu. Only one type of creature was able to survive the onslaught of a raging young vampire, and Kel didn't look like another vampire to me. Which meant that he was something else. Something entirely different. Something I'd unravel until I could stab it in Siccu's heart. Make him hurt. Make him only see me. It would be glorious.

I held on to that thought until the police arrived, collected me off the street and pumped me full of morphine. Then I didn't think much of anything.