Porcelain ♡ Frerard

Chapter 18

"Can the killer in me tame the fire in you? I know there's something waiting for us. I am sick of the chase,  but I'm stupid in love and there's nothing I can do."

— Killer, Phoebe Bridgers

——

Every sentient being standing in the field sank back into a bed of silence. The tension, which was palpable and rough against skin cooled from the frigid air, made Frank feel as though he'd become as fragile as bone china, shattering under the slightest impact. In that moment, a feather would carry out the job of breaking him, and every breath felt like an inhalation of splintered fragments sticking to the inner lining of his lungs. 

A witch? That couldn't be right. Frank possessed a special ability, it was true, but nothing else within his person indicated the presence of higher power. Not enough to categorize him as anything apart from human. Frank couldn't flicker the lights with his mind or ward of evil with a brush of his hand. Had that been the case, he'd be a fierce protector shoving the Way family behind him to keep the nomadic vampires out of their path. He wouldn't place them in a dangerous position the way he did just by living and breathing as a vampire's prey. 

For the hundredth time, Frank's memory traveled back to the story Jamia shared about witches and the way their path had crossed with vampires. Gerard dismissed it as a tale created out of animosity, later revealing there had been some truth to it, but Frank hadn't thought to ask about it in depth after he made his grand revelation. Witches certainly existed; that much had been confirmed. He began to rightfully suppose Jamia's story hadn't been fabricated, a matter of truth from the past involving the Way family's plea for peace. The stories were handed down and instilled in the current generation. If a grand power was treasured and distributed through bloodlines, Frank would've been raised around magic, grown into an eventual wielder of it— or would he? Jamia didn't seem to possess any power, nor did her brother, unless she masked it for her own discretion. Frank had a gut feeling she hadn't been pretending or making up her aversion to her family's deep involvement in witchcraft. 

"You're mistaken." Donald traded in his formal tone for a sound of warning weaving through his words. "We aren't involved with witches. They keep away from us and we don't seek them out." 

Brian's eyes flickered back to Donald, a fire burning deeply in his crimson irises as a sickeningly sweet smile twisted his mouth. "There's no mistake to be made, Donald. A witch's fragrance is so distinct, how could any one of you miss it? Their blood is rich with power. An ordinary human's blood can't compare to its sweetness." 

Frank's stomach twisted. Gerard's words echoed through his head. The sweetness of your blood is like nothing else I've ever smelled before. The world swayed in a hazy film as Frank was drawn back to a place where he became aware of his life's nectar circulating through his veins in rivers, suddenly too warm under skin that flushed harshly in a moment where his identity became one heaping question. His breath quickened and his hand shot out to wrap around Gerard's wrist, looking up with large eyes. Gerard met his gaze with a look of something Frank had never seen in him before and something he hadn't expected to find— deep, undiluted terror. 

"Again, you're incorrect," Donna cut in stiffly, "He's human. There's been no indication whatsoever that he shares ancestry with witches." 

"Don't lie to us. I can sense it in him, have you forgotten that you can't hide your abilities from me? You know he's able to feel things others can't, I'm sure. He may live as a normal human, the magic may be asleep, but his blood sings with so much promise." The words came out as unhinged rambles the longer he went on. Brian's eyes pinned on Frank with a greedy look, an almost savage glint that began appearing in Stefan's watching eyes. Frank backed up as word after word slammed him into a staggering state of uncertainty, only to be stopped by Gerard who pushed him completely behind his back so neither of the nomads could pin him with their starved gazes. Frank could only imagine where their thoughts laid. If his blood was so sweet to others, if there was truly magic within it, the nomads thirsted for it.