[Reserved for Billiam]
"Stupid, stupid, stupid."
When had he started talking to himself? It was hard to say. Weeks ago, probably. He'd been repeating that particular phrase for a few nights now. His whisper was soft but coarse, whittled down by the same winter wind that ended up dispersing it. He shouldn't have gotten involved. Rationally, he'd known what a huge risk he was taking even as he'd stalked toward the bloodsucker and his victim, but rationality hadn't cooled his blood any more than the frozen night had. A small, insistent voice had been telling Luke Kingston what was wrong and what was right his whole life, and the instant he'd thought to simply walk away, that voice had exploded into a deafening clarion. His gloved hands had curled into brutal fists without consulting his brain, and before he knew it, he was moving.
Nothing had happened since then, and that unnerved him. Of course, the people looking for him would use creatures of the night to lure him in. Odds were good they'd planted them all over the city and planned to track Luke down by following the trail of dismantled horrors. Maybe the whole thing was a set up. Maybe the girl that the vampire had forced against the alley wall was in on it too. If she was, she was a hell of an actress-
Luke shook his head vigorously as if to physically break the line of thought. His pursuers were clever, but they weren't convoluted. Still, he needed to be more careful. He had more than enough trouble, especially since the monster had gotten away. The fight had been fast and brutal. To her credit, the girl had forged sense from her terror and fled immediately. Luke had the upper hand for most of the encounter, but the creature had been faster than him. When it realized it was outmatched, it ran- well, blurred, really. By the time he'd made it out of the alley and into the street, it was gone.
Stupid as it had been, something about the encounter had made Luke feel right. More himself, whatever that meant. Self had been a nebulous term ever since he'd escaped that terrible place. He felt like a paper bag full of broken glass, with myriad shards of self grating against one another inside, each one threatening to tear the whole damn thing open. Some of those shards had coalesced when he'd charged down the beast and saved the princess, but it wasn't enough to make any difference.
As he mused, Luke paid little attention to where he was going. He'd spent practically his entire life in the city and his internal GPS was unerring. It was better not to have a real destination. They knew him better than he knew himself, so he had to stay unpredictable. He shuffled along, his hands stuffed in the pockets of a gray peacoat that had seen better days. He needed better boots and as many socks as he could get his hands on; he'd have to get more cash and visit a thrift store. There was nothing chic about his homeless look. He wore a ratty dark green sweatshirt under the coat with the hood drawn up to obscure his stubbled visage. How long had it been since he'd sprung for a flea-bitten motel room and taken a shower? Two days before the vampire, so... six days? His nose wrinkled. That same little voice gave him hell for the petty theft he'd been using to survive, but it wasn't as if he had a lot of options.
Something tugged his attention. He blinked and scrutinized his surroundings while still trudging along, looking like just another of the city's legion of forgotten souls. It was the neighborhood. There was something familiar about it, and something wrong too. His full, chapped lips pulled into a frown and he actually stopped where he was on the sidewalk and inspected his surroundings more thoroughly. His keen gaze fell on a trendy coffee shop across the street. He wasn't sure why, but he got the sense that it didn't belong, that it was supposed to be something else-
- laughter, hot, delicious grease and cheese, a group of young men crowded at a counter in front of a window looking out on the street, talking so loud they were practically shouting over one another, more and more laughter, a gentle touch at his hip, "Can I have your crust?", a vodka-flavored kiss-
-he had instinctively braced himself against the wall of a building as the memory assailed him. Like always, his pulse had spiked, his breathing grown rapid. It had been happening more and more of late. Whatever they'd done to him had left his personal history a shadowy form that lunged out at him without notice. He righted himself, drew a steadying breath of the unforgiving air, and looked down the block. Sure enough, there was the club he knew should be there. Once upon a time, he'd been a regular there, and he and his boyfriend and his boyfriend's friends would always use dollar pizza to soak up the booze- at least, if they didn't develop more interesting plans.
It hurt to remember that level of normalcy. It hurt so badly that he turned around, unable to bear being so close to a place where he'd once been happy. Shoving his hands back into his pockets, he resumed his ambling pace and did his best to forget what he'd remembered.