Title: Death Becomes Her
Word Count : 1,164
Disclaimer : Not, I says the fly. Not me says the flea. Not mine says the swine, or so I say, okay?
Summery: He found her like that, bat in hand, smashing out the windows of the church. He wasn't hungry, but he couldn't help it. 'I like to see the pretty things burn,' She'd said. She'd be the death of him.
A/N So this is kind of like, a sneak peak of a story I want to start posting in a few months. This is terribly out of context, and is actually not the beginning of the story I am saving, but rather the early middle. But...Eh. It can be like...whats it called where authors let you read the end of the book at the beginning and then tell you the story from there? It's like that, but instead of the ending, I'm telling you the middle. Does that makes sense? It should, I was pretty clear. Anyway, it's Peter, though you don't really know it's Peter, but it's Peter. And Bella, and she's a crazy little nut job, because I like my Bella crazy. Call this a little bit of a late xmas present, or something. Here it is, for you, my lovely readers.
Also, this is so unbeta'd it's not even funny. So forgive me.
Such righteous fury at the end of a Louisville slugger I had never seen. Thin, pale arms swung the bat with no precision, but smashed the pretty stained glass windows none the less. It rained down in an explosion of rainbow brilliance , and she swung again, smashing the bat against the translucent depiction of the Virgin Mary, halo'd in a mosaic of yellow glass. A single red ember light the night, smoke curling up from the cigarette that hung between her lips.
She didn't blink or flinch as she was showered in the sharp shards falling around her, tinkling against the ground like a harmony of tiny bells. Small shards caught in her hair, one even scraping lightly across her pale cheek, bringing the tiniest of blood drops welling to the surface of her skin.
I could smell them, and they smelled like a bouquet of anger and water lillies, but it wasn't enough to cause a frenzy. I'd just fed, my stomach sated and slashing with an over abundance of blood. It had been a busy night.
She cackled, a crazed laugh reigning out over the tinkling bells of glass, and took up the bat again. She stumbled, walking backwards down the stone steps, and gazing up at the brilliant church. One window left, that she hadn't smashed, to high for her reach.
The bat fell from her hands, crunching with a clatter against the cement. She glared up at the window as if it had done her wrong, hands balled into fists at her sides. She plucked the cigarette from her mouth, holding it delicately between two long, pale fingers.
"It's always that which we cannot have we want the most," I called out from behind her, watching the line of her shoulder pull tight with new tension.
She spun on her heels as sirens began to wail in the night air, no doubt alerted by the Church's alarms. Her eyes widened as they met my own, no doubt brilliant red, and she gasped, but only once. For when she had released that sharp little intake of breath, she laughed. She laughed, throwing back her head to the Heavens and cackling, low and throaty.
"You have blood on her face," she said, lips curling into crazed smile.
I grinned in return, feeling the cold splatter of blood drying at the left corner of my mouth. "So do you," I said, and she nodded, smiling wide enough to show her teeth now.
"So I do," she replied, stepping closer to me.
"It seems we've both been careless," I said, keeping my spot even as she neared. "It doesn't do to bleed to death."
Her imminent presence radiated a ferocious heat, and I found myself swallowing back a rising tide of venom. And yet her daring to step closer to a creature of the night was not the most surprising, for it was when she curled her hand into the lapels of my jacket, ciggerette still caught between her fingers, and lead me down to her level, that I found myself truly surprised since my death.
She licked my mouth, hot tongue scraping across the small smatter of blood as if it were the thing to do. She cleansed me of it, stole it from my mouth, and smirked. "We both know thats not your blood," she whispered. "Was it good? Or does it still burn?" She asked, nuzzling me, and I could feel her still-warm blood smear across my own cheek.
She stepped back with a cackle and I was flooded with that anger-and-lilly scent again, though I didn't know why. The skin on her face had already began to heal, but this was fresh and abundant, warm and bubbling, and I was filled with an over-indulgent want. I wanted her.
She lifted her hand, curled into a fist and oozing blood down her wrist. The fingers opened to reveal stained-glass more stained with thick wet red, and from what I could see, it was a shard from Mary's own face, her mouth, painted red with blood of the crazy. The shard fell to the ground with another bell-like ring, and the girl, oh the girl...
She touched me again, with red-wet hands, brushing sticky finger tips across my mouth till I couldn't help but lick them. My own hands had betrayed me, curling themselves around her wrist, and holding her there though she was hardly struggling to free herself.
I licked the line of the gash; it was deep and pulsing, pumping out fresh gushes of body-warm blood. I licked and I licked and I licked till her eyes were lidded, and her smile lazy, her palm falling open lax and languid. "Whats wrong with you?" I asked, my tongue still heavy with her bold offer. "I could have killed you. I still might."
"Consider it cab fare," she drawled. "Give a girl a lift?" She held out her arms, one still streaked with blood and the other still clutching a dwindling cigarette.
"I'm going to kill you," I assured her, tracing my thumb across the silver-pink scar on her wrist. "And you know it," I said, even as I lifted her into my arms.
She shrugged, leaning back into the bend of my elbow. "Thats what they all say," she mumbled. "It isn't that I want them," she said louder, nearly to herself, looking back at the last perfect window. "It's that I like to see the pretty things burn."
Her eyes, wide and smeared with dark make up turned back to me and she took another drag off her cigarette, puckering her lips to blow a smoke ring at my face. It grew and grew and swallowed me into it's mist when she repeated with another crazy smirk. "Pretty things."
She flicked her cigarette against the grass and didn't gasp when they went up in flame, a line of fire racing up the steps and around the the church, swallowing it in a wall of orange, red and yellow heat.
We were gone when the police arrived in a flash of red and blue. She pressed her palm against my neck and let her blood run down my spine, soaking into the black cotton of my shirt. When I glared, she let her head fall back, exposing the long pale line of her flesh. "I live at 215 Watercrest up on Haper Hill. Take me there," she demanded, pushing her bloody fingers into the hair at my nape. "Your very pretty. Want to have dinner some time?"
I stared down at her, the line scarring slowly on her cheek, or the thick smudge of masscarra that marred the real dark circles beneath her brown eyes. I stared at her mouth, tinged with the blood she'd stolen from me, and recalled the words she'd only just said.
"I like to see the pretty things burn."
She'd be the death of me.
The death of Death.
A/N Yeah, so expect a follow up story to this, called Reaper. If you want to be alerted to it, just hit Alerts on this fic, and I'll add a prologue as a second chapter for the next fic when it's ready to post so you all know, or something. Yeah. *runs away from this crap*