His restlessness and indecision delivered him to the pristine portions of overlapping districts. The posh parts of town where name-brand shops opened their doors to well-dressed and well-armed customers. Rings and ties and dazzling gazes were their weapons, ever trained upon the staff and product alike. He avoided these places, let his feet carry him further. They delivered him over wide gaps crossed only by excessive speed and power. They shuttled him past bookstores, clothing stores, corner stores, cat cafes, hair salons, makeup booths, and other oddities reliant on the rich and curious. He passed the lot of them by.
Blaring lights and flashing globes caught his attention. As he approached, he felt the sheer heat of thousands of watts of electricity chasing over his skin. There, an old-fashioned theatre sign hung gaudily over the street, proclaiming its name to the clouds overhead and the cars below. The heat alone startled him out of his reverie. He wiped his forehead, tugged out his best. He passed the theatre sign -- a ballet proclamation, he noted -- and ventured along loose shale toward another parapet.
Over this, he saw potential -- a cafe worker in the alley, emptying trash. An easy ambush, if unfavorable. Work exhausted the -- his -- victims. Mentally he cursed the balcony that overhung the outdoor seating, barring his sights from the number of patrons attending. Many visible tables sat empty, perhaps expected for the evening hour. But teas and coffees promised a jolt that he could drain away with fervor, and any victim therein qualified for his needs. He saw only a shock of deep violet beyond the awning, back to him and table eschewed toward the quieter alleys.
Good enough. Faustite crouched on the parapet's sturdy surface and bided his time, expectant for his target's movement.
The faint tink of china was a constant, ambient background sound in the small cafe, even at this hour of night. The tea and, to some extent, coffee brewed were some of the best in the city and Rowan always made it a point to stop after rehearsals. It was an ideal atmosphere to unwind and let overtaxed muscles relax. In fact, the table he had chosen had become a norm for him. Many of the workers recognized him on sight which was a welcomed experience. Sure, their smiles and hello’s were likely bought with the money he spent, but it didn’t matter.
The table he occupied was outfitted for two occupants. Rowan occupied one. The other was a perch for his bag, filled with tights, ballet slippers, and changes of clothes and his bag created a rather comfortable spot to rest a foot as he leaned back in the wooden chair. Eyes roved over a book that was casually held in his hand which was propped up by his other arm which was lazily crossed against his abdomen. The white linen shirt he wore,covered by a light leather jacket spoke of someone with high taste in materials. Even his denim jeans were well tailored and crisp.
Absently he reached for the fine china cup, carefully designed with delicate flowers, and raised it to his lips to sip from as he continued reading from his book.
A waitress came by and he offered her a charming smile, putting his cup down and sweeping purple locks, wavy and messy from being tied up during rehearsal, out of his face. “Seeing as I am not in any rush tonight could you get me another cup please?” He paused a moment, tapping the spine of his small book against his chin in thought. “Hmmmm...Yes just the tea. I shouldn’t eat any of those tempting scones you all make here.” With a playful grin he thanked her before turning his attention back to his book.
The man remained. Faustite heard no exchange over the din of traffic, but he surmised his target's response to the passing waitress. Inwardly he counted the seconds, the breaths, the beating of his heart in his ears until he was certain the waitress left well enough alone. She wouldn't be returning, he told himself. She left. She sussed out other customers, other orders. This one was his.
He couldn't simply wait around forever. He had a will, as Leucite said. He needed to use it.
Faustite crouched, then dropped from the parapet. Feet touched the ground in a scuffle, his petite frame compacting under the force, then he straightened with little repercussion. He saw the patio area in full now -- many chairs sat empty, many tables unoccupied. A couple sat on the opposite end with a book shared between them, and an older man sat alone even further. Faustite watched him, all stark eyes and smoky pipes and anachronistic shirts. He watched, breath held. Jaw set. Patient. The man noticed nothing.
Just as well. Faustite stepped forward, gave a quick glance to the alley, and found nothing. Another step. Traffic edged by, and the rest of the world slowed in wake of heady adrenaline. His veins surged with a contemptuous power. Another few paces crossed and he stepped up onto the patio's lip, now feet behind his victim. It was with a light touch that he reached for him. He wavered, watching the spectators in the distance. Still nothing. Still nothing. Still nothing.
Faustite clasped his hand around warm flesh, his grip tight and commanding. He felt the body seize in delayed reaction. The teacup chinked in its saucer. Dregs of tea sloshed up against the sides. His book jostled, fell out of his lap. His hand met Faustite's, and he looked up --
Lips parted in surprise; Faustite's visage slipped perceptibly. He closed his mouth, swallowed; energy slipped away all the while. The ball formed and raveled and roiled and grew. There, with his hand pressed to the man's throat and his gaze locked to gold and the cool grip on his own, he felt a tempestuous rancor growing in his gut. The man would scream, perhaps. Shout. Wrest Faustite's hand as best he could. But time slowed here, time taunted him and watched him and jaunted along on its own schedule. Faustite swallowed thickly. This was a mistake.
I know you.
It happened so fast. Faster than he could react.
An abnormally warm hand snaked it’s way to his throat and grasped at the tender flesh. His airway was gently crushed, as fingers slipped from the cup he had been putting back down. Tea sloshed in the dainty cup but managed to remain in its container. Dropping his book he clutched at the offending hand attached to his throat. Eyes wide as he attempted to pry fingers away from flesh and insert his own as a means of defence.
Who was it? Who was doing this? His head snapped up as golden eyes sought out the offender. Rowan had been expecting a gruff man, some mugger looking for some easy money. Though this part of town wasn’t known for having such kinds, it would be a mistake to assume that none prowled the streets. Instead though, what the teen found was not a pair of blue, green, brown or any other set of eyes glaring down at him. No. He found himself staring into two pools of black backdropped by teeming smoke from pipes he couldn’t see.
His mouth opened in surprise. Had he made a sound? He must have as the hand grasping his throat pinched harder, cutting off airway to vocal chords. Instead a soft gasping sound was all that escaped him as he began to claw at the entities hand. “Let….go.” He tried to gasp out but was nothing more than garbled sounds.
Try as he might to pull or move away nothing worked.
No one was noticing his attacker. They were all too far away.
Why was he feeling heavier? Tired? What was going on.
Short nails raked over the skin of his attackers hand fruitlessly as a knee came into contact with the table he had situated himself at. The tea which had managed to stay put earlier spilled all over the table as the cup was knocked onto its side, clanking loudly against its saucer. The table itself squeaking as it’s legs scraped against the cement ground.
Time protracted. It drew out far to the horizon. It ensconced them both in a world separate from the rest -- where Faustite seized the precious seconds to sift old memories.
I know you. You're one of the Cameron boys. The thought, automatic, came with its own worn and folded images. Standing near Erol's side, slightly behind. The perpetual scent of cigar smoke clinging to the air, cloying his nose and mouth. Elex looked up, and the sun caught just so to light a fiery halo around him -- the younger Cameron boy. They stood in front of windows, he remembered. Great glass constructs acting as bars to the world outside. Glass unstained yet spilling over with abstract scenery. Elex thought it was too bright. Burple cooked to black with backlighting. They both lit up like terrible, burning angels. Then his mother called, and Elex turned away.
They spoke of parents, he remembered. Disillusionment. The damning fate of inheriting the better share of the money, the business, the house. Responsibility's burden clung to their backs and wrenched their shoulders down.
The Cameron boy's leg struck the table, rattled the cup. Spilled it outright. Elex was no longer Faustite. Faustite no longer stared through window panes wishing for a better view. He looked down with eyes no longer distant and witnessed the man -- the victim -- he now held. Age broadened and sturdied his jaw. Developed his cheekbones. Knit fuller brows to cover his molten gold eyes in consternation. Purple hair looked much more vibrant against the backdrop of Faustite's pale, delicate hand.
The Cameron boy tried to scream. Faustite suppressed much of it, but the choice mattered little -- the table's jostle caught attention from across the patio, and now other patrons rose slowly with cell phones in hand. Faustite jerked his hand back. He wrenched from the boy's clawing fingers, unheeding the beads of blood from biting nails. The orb collected felt perfect and weighty in his hand. He offered the boy a breath, a subtle c**k of the corner of his mouth. Perhaps offended, perhaps intrigued. He turned away, orb in hand, and vanished in his own smoke.
It was mere seconds. Seconds that ticked by slowly but as if a gong going off the...thing clenching his throat jerked away. Immediately his body convulsed as lungs sucked up as much air as they could in one giant gasp. Golden eyes never strayed away from his attacker though.
A part of him wanted to reach up and punch whatever he was while another part was intrigued by the mystery of what he was. It is a he, right? Yes. Most definitely. There’s no mistaking the frame, even if petite. But what is he? Before rowan could even form words or move a muscle besides his eyes which trailed the boy with a hawk-like intensity, the black eyed boy was gone. Gone in….literally a puff of smoke.
Patrons were moving from their seats, most were holding phones that Rowan could only assume were being utilized for pictures or even video. After all, the entire scene surely had to look like it was out of some sort of movie. Wait….he wasn’t on some sort of odd reality TV show? No. No there was no sign of a camera crew anywhere, no one was jumping out to take credit for scaring the s**t out of him, and nothing could explain his sudden weariness and that glowing ball that had formed in his hand.
Truthfully, Rowan wasn’t sure if he should be pissed, scared or….flattered. Had he been chosen for the attack for a reason? Had he just been the lucky one? The easiest target?
And what had been with that look? That oh-so-subtle quirk of his mouth? It was oddly mystifying and frustrating at the same time.
“Sir, are you alright?” The woman who had taken his order had hurried to his table accompanied by a gentleman, maybe the owner? Rowan wasn’t sure.
Sucking in a breath, Rowan mustered up the strength to right himself in his chair and stagger to a standing position. “Fine. You had best work on your security around here.” He huffed out haughtily. At that moment a flush of embarrassment embraced him. Utilizing the table as an anchor he balanced himself as he grabbed his bag. It took a few seconds for him to retrieve his wallet from his back pocket before he deposited bills on the table and slowly and determinedly marched himself away from the shop while a hand reached up to rub his neck where the warm, pale hand had been minutes earlier.
kolina
since this is the basis for the halloween prompt...
