Nocte Yin: Anti-Villain, Anti-Hero and Anti-Everything Else

Chapter Twenty-Six

She could feel his pulse beat feebly against her palm, a slowing thump, thump that waxed and waned with the tide. She could feel his lungs contract, a desperate judder that flowed and faltered like the wind. She could feel his own guilt and shame bleeding from his pores, an overwhelming falling and breaking like that of tectonic plates and uneven earth. His consciousness was yielding, his awareness sinking, perception fading. Still, she did not grant him mercy.

He was no god, yet he had played like one.

Alex turned to Doctor frantically, searching for answers to this sudden hostile outcome only to be horrified at his impassive reaction. Achindra made an attempt to intercept the violence, but Doctor blocked her with an arm, startling the Master Vampire. Priscilla struggled under Witley’s grip to assist her mistress, but the spy’s hold was strong and unforgiving.

Unforgiving.

Nocte watched him pale farther than his natural state of paleness, her stare half-lidded and unfeeling.

She wasn’t twelve years old anymore. She wasn’t that little girl who went through her final year at Athena Academy blissfully unaware of the smouldering treachery of her clan or the underhanded and traitorous plan her parents had for her that following summer. She wasn’t that innocent girl who forgave every one of her peers for copying her math homework when she wasn’t looking, or for occasionally ratting her and Aman out for eating ice cream in the library, or for blaming her and her group of friends every time something was lost, broken or hurt. She wasn’t that twelve-year-old girl who sat and obeyed her parents’ every wish and whim, no matter how ridiculous or unexpected it was, including being suddenly transferred to whole other school.

Nocte was no longer so forgiving.

His eyes fell slowly closed, his fingers slowly slackened. She waited, coldly, as his fingernails slipped from their grip around her wrist, leaving small and bruising indentations. She almost, nearly, ended him if not for Doctor.

“Enough,” the Lucent decided, expression grim and disappointed. “Let him go.”

She wasn’t thirteen years old anymore. She wasn’t that poor girl who arrived at her new and frightening school without the understanding of the already established hierarchy. She wasn’t that stupid girl who ignored every jibe from her peers, or mocking laughter from Noir, or patronizing glare from Paine. She wasn’t that girl who quivered under every beautiful girl who crossed her path, believing that she could ally herself with the living vampire princess Vanessa Blackthorn, or that she had to run from the most popular girl in school, Melissa Witley. She wasn’t that upstart who had to stake a place for herself at Evil Academy through a dramatic and embarrassing dance competition. She wasn’t that thirteen-year-old girl who had no place among her peers, or didn’t know her place.

Nocte was no longer so worthless.

She squeezed his throat one last time, stalling Doctor’s request and trifling with their nerves, before releasing the prophet from her hold. He fell to the ground, collecting morning dew as he went, and gasped for breath. He shook and curled into himself, sweating from the heat of his panic and the cold from the chilling autumn dawn. She engrossed herself with healing the skin along the length of her arm, the skin he had broken with his nails. She was feeling neither regret nor remorse for her actions.

He was no god, but a mortal.

“Are,” Achindra hissed, eyes a bloody red, “you aware of what you’ve almost done?!”

Nocte slid her gaze, slow and languid — terrifyingly languid — to the girl vampire. Chantée flinched and Siren cowered; Achindra’s left cheek twitched, but otherwise the girl held her ground. Witley’s grasp on Priscilla was unrelenting and horrifyingly so. They were at a standstill.