Imprint - 30. Chapter Six: Blood and Battle and Death

I

There were many hidden paths between; the road he traveled on was red.

It was a road with a long memory, every door on the path knew its origins and whispered its secrets along the way: from the great field where armies blue and grey collided, to the street corner where a child on a bicycle collided with one of those motorized vehicles everyone was driving these days.

He'd always made a point to spill as much blood as possible in the earliest days; he was not a sadist, it was pure convenience. On the other side, many of those doorways remembered him in particular and cursed his name as he went by; those souls would've passed in and out of the aether dozens of times, but an echo of their hatred remained.

Here in this place he could not create, merely use what is already available, to force his will on powers long dormant, unaccustomed to being used and fought him every step of the way. Through a back alley that once saw a man wage a losing battle for his wallet, out and away, to where a drunk man once fell out of a tree, cracked his skull and bled out unnoticed overnight.

The fresh air hit him in the face, moonlight and chirping crickets. He was standing alone in a dead grey land (parking lot, he knew the word), a cluster of buildings off in the distance (strip mall), no tree anywhere in sight, that doorway must be an old one.

Now, where am I exactly?

He'd never been to the town, didn't trust himself not to do something rash, not after having to alter all his plans thanks to a horde of unwelcome guests, rendering the entire endeavor moot. He'd looked at maps though, memorized them, it shouldn't take more than a minute to place his location and how far he was from his target.

It was far too long to wait. Following a fatal error and learning there was little he could do for a child that could not feed itself, there had been a routine: at the start of the fourth year, in dead of night he would walk into whatever village, pick the boy up and simply leave with him. In time he would arrive on the appointed day to find the boy had wandered outside to wait for him; never knew him on sight but came when beckoned, clung to him contentedly the whole way.

The boy... though this world would not yet call him a man, he was not a boy any longer, was he?

The strip mall was approximately five miles from the boy's home; there was no closer red door, he was going to have to walk it. How humiliating.

Standing in the lingering pull of his own element, he grabbed hold of Veil's deadened atmosphere, pulling it around himself in a cloak to dampen his own energy signature. The days when this was his private hideaway are long over, it wasn't enough anymore to just disguise his appearance, not when he would stand out to the uninvited guests, like a bright beacon in a lifeless void, they wouldn't even need to be in visual range to know who he was. Difficult to accomplish and exhausting to maintain, it was why he didn't go out much now. The conduit burned hot around his finger, amazing it hadn't blown out yet with the extra burden put on it.

He'd seen the effect the masking had on his features, many times before, bizarre to his eye but it worked, even here. Brown overtook his eyes turning them near black, also running through his hair, dulling it but not otherwise changing its color; his complexion darkened appropriately, though his nails, now short and stubby, remained red. It could never get his teeth to look right either.

Minor nitpicks, at least he passed for human. Now if, say, Lynk were to try the same? What sort of a misshapen freak show would that be?

Walking through the empty parking lot, he actively reached out toward that single point of energy, that awareness that hovered maddeningly in the back of his mind these last seventeen years, binding them together through however many miles (or worlds), and gave it a tap.

Now, my darling, where are you....

He had another fucking headache. Not a surprise, he'd anticipated a day full of them when he left home this morning, he had two bottles of painkillers in his jacket pockets he'd been steadily eating all day. It had been kept under control, right up until arriving at this fucking party.

Xander found an open window to stand next to, deciding the small amount of fresh air coming through it was worth being closer to the booming stereo. The nearest few people were far more interested in flirting with each other than paying him any mind, and he seemed to have lost Gina at some point, though she'd be back like a fucking rash.

Why the fuck was he here? He didn't even know who Adrienne was, much less care about her birthday. Worse, he wasn't sure Gina really knew Adrienne either. It was possible, she had a small group of female friends hovering around her, all such a blur to him they might as well be the same person, but he'd have sworn Adrienne was not a name mentioned until she suddenly started harping on this party as a thing they simply must do. He'd tried to weasel out of it of course, but she'd been insistent, everyone was going to be there. With graduation looming, he doubted he'd be able to dodge this shit as easily as before; at least it'll be over soon.

The football team was here, most of them anyway. They'd accosted him upon arrival, hooting in his face, keeping him nearby while the keg was tapped and the first round passed out; they kept wandering by individually to talk, other people too, smiled and nodded like he was supposed to know them. Maybe he did, it was hard to keep track when you really didn't care.

The music pounded by his head

(clash, metal on metal, body on body, hear the sound of flesh tearing)

loud voices, all blended into a single piercing noise

(the roar of battle, the rush of victory, pain of defeat, all blending to a single sound, an adrenalin buzz shooting up your spine, never more alive than-)

(...where are...)

booze and cigarettes and weed filled the room, a cloud so thick you could almost reach out and touch it

(...you? Come home, I need...)

too small a room for all that, the walls closing in, that trapped feeling

(I do not belong here, this is not my life, it can't be)

(...to see you, come on, come...)

that hovered in the back of his consciousness cranked up to unbearable levels, making his skin crawl, need to go, just get out

(...home, come home...)

A thousand tiny hooks, digging into his brain, pulling, tearing

(...come home, come see me, come...)

“Oh my god, what did you do to your arm?!”

The touch was too sudden, too intense somehow, and he jerked away hard enough his elbow slammed into the wall. It helped rattle his brain back into some semblance of functionality.

Gina had refilled her cup yet again, her eyes were beginning to look red

(red, red like...)

“Are you drunk?”

Xander refused to dignify that with a response, raising a hand to rub at his eyes-

“No, wait, don't!”

-fingertips were red.

(...you hear me?)

At first he thought he'd chewed them open, though he hadn't done that in years; eyes cut over to his other forearm, the small darkening bruises three dripping blood, red scratches running down to the inside of the wrist, impressive for having no nails.

He didn't remember doing that.

(...come on, come home...)

“Come on,” that hand was back at his elbow, trying to clutch, to pull.

He jerked away again, “I”m fine.” It was true, didn't even hurt.

“But you should-”

“No.”

“Just go lie down or something.”

He snorted, “Already told you, I'm not fucking you in her parents' bed.” It had been a point of contention all day long, since she first brought it up in that coy, teasing voice like he'd think it a bit of kinky fun; if she caterwauled loudly enough everyone would hear it, everyone would think she was just so fucking lucky. Not doing that again, no thank you. Xander had allowed himself to be dragged out shopping all day long, then to this stupid party, stood here all night with a non-murderous expression screwed on his face, he'd done his boyfriend duty. He was going home, alone, unmolested, to watch Italian cannibal films and relax in his own way.

(...home, come...)

“What is your fucking problem?” Gina had a talent for projecting her voice without being obvious about it, already a few heads were turning. Being drunk and high amplified her spoiled rich girl tendencies, shortening the time frame between what do you mean no and full on temper tantrum, and if there's going to be a fight it should be as public as possible. Poor little Gina, so put upon, what she must endure, does that man not know how fucking lucky he is, how could anyone say no to poor little Gina? Let her see every man in the room quietly preening to himself about how much better he'd treat her given the chance, not that he would ever get that chance, but just because you aren't good enough for the princess doesn't mean you can't boost her ego a little.

At times, Xander would look around at his so called peers, paired off into their own relationships, and wonder if any of them have to deal with the same shit. Or maybe he was just lucky.

There were too many little hooks, digging in his brain, there was not room for another.

(...come on, come home, come...)

“I'm out of here,” didn't know he was going to say it until it came out, but it was the best idea he'd heard all day.

(...good, now hurry...)

“Wait, what?” Gina seemed to take a moment to catch on, then there were those hands again, trying to grab on, “What do you mean? Are you leaving?” Like small fluttering birds, those hands; would that he could grab them and, like a small bird, twist its annoying little head off.

“Going to lie down. You should be thrilled.”

“You can't fucking leave!” Gina's voice grew more shrill as he kept dodging her grip, once he got out the door it would be too late; more heads turned this time, not trying to pretend they weren't watching, “You can't just leave me here, how the fuck am I supposed to get home?”

Speaking through gritted teeth, “Christ sake, Gina, you live a mile away.”

“And I'm supposed to walk all by myself, in the middle of the night? Are you fucking kidding?”

And what, exactly, was going to happen to her, here in this quiet pissant town filled with spineless yuppies? “And you'd be safer with me?”

“Xander? Xander, don't you leave me here, I swear to god.” She looked ridiculous trying to be threatening, all five foot two of her, artful blond curls and little pixie face; make up and stylishly provocative clothing made pitiful battle armor, though those heels could've been put to good use on the feet of a braver, more imaginative soul. “You do, and...I'll just get a ride from someone else.”

At the door, he couldn't resist the urge to turn and laugh, “You do that. Be sure and send me a picture.”

“You are such an asshole!” that venom filled shriek was, thankfully, all that followed him outside. Yes, I am an asshole. I've always been an asshole. So why do you put up with it? Because what else were you going to do? Asshole or not, he was still more interesting than anything else around here.

(...are you coming then?)

“Xander! Wait, Jesus.” There was an unwelcome but totally expected sound, he'd swear Jeff could smell it when he left a room. And here his unwanted shadow was, trudging across the lawn to meet him at the sidewalk, the bright red solo cup in his hand spilling over his fingers.

“What did you do, man? Gina's in there yelling about finding another boyfriend, I think they're going to hold try-outs in the pool or some shit.”

He could've torn his hair out his head; Xander kept walking, not far enough away yet, “Good, let her. She can fuck every guy in the house for all I care. She can start with you.”

(...are you coming, then? Quickly now...)

“Are you all right?” Jeff went from joking to concerned quickly enough to be worrying, just how bad did Xander look? He walked faster to where his car was, not giving Jeff a chance to get in front of him for a better view.

He decided to be honest, “No.”

“Do you need any-”

“No.”

The footsteps behind him stopped, though no retreat sounded so Xander waited for the final, parting remark. “I'll get her home for you. Gina, I mean. So...don't worry about that.”

This time he resisted the urge to turn and laugh. Unbelievable, he hoped they killed each other, then he would be free.

In the car, it took an embarrassing amount of time to get the key into the ignition with hands that shook too badly; in the rear view mirror his skin was flushed, eyes glassy and bloodshot. His head was still pounding and his skin felt ready to crawl off. He wondered at his ability to get himself home, but not enough to call Jeff back, or worse call his parents. He'd just go slowly.

(...I'll be waiting...)

He stood in silent awe of this house, first from the outside and now within, gazing around the spacious family room. He'd had a place this big once, it had housed him, his knight, sometimes his brother, several chosen generals; it boggled the mind to think only one family lived here. Far from a village hut, the boy had moved up in the world.

He eyed the huge television enviously, the massive film collection taking up most of one wall; if there was one thing he did enjoy about Veil it was the live action stories, especially lately with the visual effects improving, made those long stretches of time spent hiding away more bearable. Not one of his own set ups was this grand, he would've loved to turn that monstrosity on, sit back with his feet up and wait. But he was not alone here, he could sense two lives, the breeders likely, asleep upstairs; it would not be convenient for them to awaken and make an appearance, not until he was long gone.

So he amused himself by quietly exploring the room, picking up signs of the lives lived here. There were collections of framed photographs hung up all over, most prominently featuring two near identical boys and a girl, all blond haired, blue eyed, smiling and bland. These three children at many different ages, from infancy to adulthood, in colorful robes and ridiculous hats, in formal wear and beach wear and hideous holiday sweaters. There was also a blond man and woman, earliest seen at their own wedding, such a happy couple; then the woman heavily pregnant, then with two babies one in each arm, then pregnant again and later with a single infant and a pair of toddlers flanking her.

He was halfway through the room before he found what he was looking for. A cluster of photos from what looked like the same vacation, and there was another little boy in the background at the beach, at the mini golf course, never the focus but there nonetheless. In the middle of the frame was a group shot of them all atop a mountain, and there was the boy again, darker complected than the others and, at age eight, younger than the blond girl by maybe seven years. He remained outside of the happy family huddle, half a foot away with no arm around him but his own crossed over his chest, looking at the camera with mismatched eyes.

Interesting. If this photographic shrine were any indication, the Cain family had not adjusted well to the cuckoo in their nest.

That photo though... he knew every minute of that boy's development, down to the smallest detail, and something there looked off. Could be nothing, a shadow, a failure of the medium (he didn't know enough about photography to be certain); his nail tapped the glass, mind puzzling it through.

The door banged open behind him, heavy footsteps slammed inside, grumbling curses. A piece of clothing went flying from the foyer to hit a nearby recliner, and the man himself stepped into view a moment later, a small bottle tipped to his mouth before it, too, was tossed on the chair.

Canaan.

In that moment, their last bitter confrontation had vanished, and the years between stretched, cold and empty.

It took no more than a second for Canaan to notice he was there, taking half a step back, a flood of conflicted emotion on his face, a light in the eyes beginning to dawn, lips starting to form a familiar name.

Tempting to just let it happen...

...but you can't. Not anymore.

One spoken word, a whispered command, and that dawning knowledge stalled in its tracks; the boy stood in the foyer, quiet and pliant.

“Perils of youth, yes?” he couldn't help the sullen tone to his voice, “If I could've still done that three hundred years ago, we would not be here now.”

No response, but memory could fill in the curt dismissal that would have followed.

“So, there you are.” Alexander, that's what they were calling him now. Another meaningless, temporary placeholder; his real name never changed and he never forgot it.

An additional wait of thirteen years had made little difference, the boy's body was a well oiled machine, no longer needing to be prodded or forced, with or without him it knew to prepare. All was as it should be inside, just waiting for him to flip the switch.

Except...

In person, that small difference was clear and visible, not a trick of the light after all. Closer now, he reached over, idly wrapping strands of that red hair around his finger, “And what is this, then? An homage to me?” likely not, but the idea amused him nonetheless, “When you've remembered our last conversation, I will have cause to gloat.”

A quick flick of his thumb nail separated the strands, tucked away in his pocket; it was odd, but not immediately concerning, he would contemplate it later.

“Look at me,” cupped that face in his hands, tilting it up; they were of a level now, the boy would grow another two inches before he was done, “Open your eyes and look at me.”

Familiar mismatched eyes met his own, not in anger nor welcome, a quiet neutrality, that former burgeoning recognition dimmed to a mere shadow.

“This is not how I wanted this to go. But even my plans don't always work as intended.” Canaan's eyes shifted, some part of his mind listening, “Oh you would not have approved of those plans, not at all. I imagine you righteously angry at being spirited away. But you would've gotten over it, in time.”

It was hard to say if, when he was done here, Canaan would ever remember any of this; he talked anyway, just in case.

“The whore showed up here, short while back. I suppose it was foolish of me to think even a thick, suffocating wall would ever keep him away. Of course he was tipped off where to go, and lo who should come following in his wake but my vindictive brother.” A head shake, “So good at manipulating others, not so good at knowing when he's being played. If you're going to insist on keeping him around, do make him smarter.

“There is Lynk as well, though that was my own doing, blame it on bad timing. I know he knows that you're here, I don't believe he's watching so closely, but he would notice if you were to suddenly disappear. It would be inconvenient for him to learn why.”

His hands clamped tighter, pulling Canaan's face closer, “I can not do this in full, and you won't thank me for it, but I can't leave you in such a state with no one to take care of you right. I fear it will be more unpleasant than usual, and I can do nothing to aid it. You will simply have to endure.”

Canaan remained quiet, even when his body seized and started to shake, even when blood dripped from his nose, ears and the corner of his mouth. The smell of burning skin filled the foyer, blood, metal, smoke and aether, a body both welcoming him as a vital piece missing too long and rejecting him as a foreign invader in that knee jerk mortal way.

When he let go Canaan collapsed on the floor, vomit spraying out across the white tile, an eye watering mixture of blood and bile.

Down on his knees, just shy of the mess, he pulled the boy's sweaty head into his lap, “I do apologize that I can not take you with me, you will have to pretend to be a nobody for a while longer.” The boy was shaking in pain, open channels quickly closing to adjust and heal, he was running out of time.

“I'm going to have to ask you to forget this,” the words focused and weighted, another command, “for now. Forget I was here. Forget me altogether. Don't think of it, don't let it cross your mind.” Pushing through his barely conscious brain, locking doors and sealing pathways as he went.

Canaan would just have to forgive him this as well.

“When circumstances are more favorable, I will return for you. Farewell, my knight, promise not to leave you rotting here any longer than I must.”

“Going somewhere, man?”

The words broke Canaan out of his trance, eyes peeling reluctantly away from the house to face the boy waiting for him across the street, “I got bored waiting, all right.”

“Hey, sorry, went as fast as I could.”

“No problem.” Canaan threw one more cautious glance over his shoulder, but with the compulsion ended his mind obeyed the first order, dismissing the house and anything he might have seen there; he quickly departed with the other boy, driving off down the street.

He pulled his hand from the window pane, letting it fall to his side. He had not meant to do that, and nearly had not caught himself in time.

It had not been his smartest idea to hole up in the empty house across the street. Walking out the door that night had been harder than expected, every instinct screaming to take what was his and go, fuck the crowd they can deal with it later; he could not let himself leave entirely, not without making sure that Canaan was okay. It took more than two weeks for him to emerge, which was less time than expected if longer than normal; he looked whole and well, no worse for wear for the lack of proper care.

It was a relief; it also meant he no longer had reason to stay.

Just as well, there were other matters here that required his attention, to serve as a decent distraction.

Like another errant tool to find.