Hotel Transylvania Angst Book

Let The Darkness Rise

The air is rank with the heavy scents of tanker grease, smoke, stagnant water, wet dirt, and old blood. Blood oozed, ran in web-like rivulets to thin, dry and darken betwixt the cobblestones, sticky like crude oil from machines, but it was not a machine of metal that this substance was pooling so lethally from.

Two pairs of eyes glow in the nighttime, matching in colour: a pale, piercing lapis lazuli.

These eyes are locked on each other as if in challenge, pupils mere slits, reptilian, inhuman.

One pair is widened. The other is as well, before it becomes downcast.

He withdraws his teeth from his most recent kill, tongue automatically swiping out to cleanse the reddish glaze from curving fangs, too late to pretend this was something otherwise.

Far, far too late.

She is trembling, her own fangs bared in a disbelieving grimace, horror unable to completely suppress instinct as they lengthen to protrude over her taut lower lip.

The scent of blood is heavy in the air, but not nearly so burdening as the words not yet said, caught in closed throats and locked in blanked brains.

He straightens, his mantle closing elegantly around his tall frame, darkening him into the surrounding shadows except for the paleness of his face and the brightness of his eyes; always elegant, always impeccable, always immaculate, except now, with the redness now staining his face and hands, except now, with the guilt now being placed bit by painful, weighty bit on his psyche with every passing second under her searing, simple stare. None of this guilt is betrayed in his face, only tiredness, weariness, regret, as the body cools at his feet.

His work is not yet finished, of course, but some things must take precedence...

He speaks first, the weariness roughening his voice.

"Didn't I tell you not to go out," he says quietly, "Didn't I...?"

"You did, you did..."

Her voice is a quaver, a broken song, tainted by smoke and shock, another stab into his heart.

"Didn't I say the world was cruel?" he gestures to the expanse of machine and stone and blood that encompasses them, turning away for a moment, "Didn't I...?"

"You did, you did..." she grieves.

He turns back to her, jaw slightly clenched, though his voice is still soft.

"Then tell me how this happened," he murmurs, glancing her over, her pure presence in this unholy place a wrongness in his eyes, his voice breaks, "What I did wrong,

Tell me, why?

Can we just fly home, bat,

And forget this dreadful night...?"

She is small, she has no mantle to hide inside, no years nor wisdom to bring impact to her presence. But she has spirit, she has strength, and now she has something to be fueled by these attributes. Her shaking eases, her hands slowly lower to clench at her sides instead of fisting in front of her breast. He blinks as he faces a frame with shoulders broadened instead of curled, a frame of defiance and rebuke, of challenge instead of fear, and his own shame nearly cripples him in front of her as she glances from him to the corpse.

"Didn't you say that you were different," she grinds out, staring at the sad thing at his feet, "Didn't you?"

"I am, I am..." he mourns, almost a plea.

"Say you aren't this person," her gaze snaps back to his, "Say it..."

"I am, I am...!" he repeats sorrowfully, whether this is an agreement or a confession, what does it matter now?