Beyond Nocturne Ch. 04

"It looks that way."

"Maybe your mystery killer did you a favor."

"Maybe," he conceded and then added, "But my brother might think otherwise."

From the roof of the museum, the creature that had once been Steve Wolverton perched on the ledge, recognizing both of them, but only in a purely instinctual way. It knew it didn't want to hurt the man, but the woman... it licked its lips, the long pink tongue running over its misshapen and razor sharp teeth. The woman had caused this, and it craved vengeance almost as much as it ached for blood... for sweet meat. The red eyes glowed like hot embers, radiating with feral excitement as it prepared to attack.

***

Inside the museum, Maricel bolted upright out of a dead sleep, her eyes wide and teeth bared as she felt a surge of pure hate tear through her soul. It stabbed through her brain and paralyzed her as alien sensations began exploding across her body. She was seeing through another person's eyes, though as she felt the black thoughts invading her head, she quickly began to doubt it's humanity. She could feel rain on her skin, wet and cold as the insides of her eyes showed her the outside of the building, the rainy streets below and the hands of whoever she was sensing. The hands were huge with large veins and powerful sinewy muscles, the fingers tipped with black claws that made Lydia's look like sewing needles.

She fought off an overpowering wave of vertigo as the creature began crawling down the wall, silently and head first to keep its eyes on its prey. Maricel convulsed as her connection with the creature began to sever, the mental bonds pulling and snapping painfully in her head. She doubled over and shut her eyes, the last image from the connection being of Lydia and some man in the rain talking.

With all her strength, Maricel screamed as loud as her mind would allow, "LYDIA!"

***

Lydia staggered back as Maricel's voice ripped into her mind.

Michael went to help her as something large and pale dropped from above and landed squarely on him. The detective fell to the ground, his gun spinning across the wet concrete as the wind was forced out of his lungs by the weight of the attacker. Lydia looked at it and felt it's rage burning off it's hulking mass. It looked at her, cocking its head slightly, it's Nosferatu-like features shiny and wet in the downpour. She could hear it growling like a lion, it's red eyes glowing demonically in the dim light.

Her heart raced as she quickly probed its thoughts, and to her horror realized she knew this creature.

Her eyes widened and the world went strangely silent, muted by the moment of such an unexpected revelation.

"It can't be," she whispered, awestruck and terrified to her core, "It can't be."

"Lydia," it rasped and stepped off Michael's back. The detective gasped as he sucked air back into his lungs, rolled over and lay still for a moment, watching them. It stood erect, forsaking its crouched-attack position. It was muscular and abominable, every fiber of it's alien anatomy tight and flexed, radiating with raw power. She could make out huge pectorals and a line of twelve abdominal muscles on its fish-white belly. Its skin was a pale blue with dark mottling over its arms and legs. A large, thick penis hung down between its powerful thighs, at least a foot long. A heavy scrotum seemed to pulsate behind its member, dark and forbidding. Its feet were clawed with black talons that scratched into the concrete. It towered over Lydia; it's breath rank with carrion and some kind of older, more potent odor.

"Steve?" she whispered, her body cold and mind frozen. She had never been paralyzed but once in her life, and that had been the night she was bitten. And now, as she stood before the man she had killed, the innocent man who had been filled with such love and kindness, she realized she was about to pay for her sins in full. He had been transformed into a monster, a creature beyond definition or reason.

An aberrant, just like her.

And a creature of her own making that would kill her.

"Lydia," it hissed as it grabbed her shoulders in its hydraulic-press grip. She couldn't move, couldn't think as its long tongue snaked out and caressed her face, slid down her neck and into her shirt. She felt it's hot, sandpaper-like muscle slip wetly between her tits as its stink enveloped her. The teeth nestled in the bright pink gums were as black as its talons, and equally as deadly as it pulled her close. It seemed the creature was thoroughly enjoying his toying with her as it drew her face to its teeth.

One of the jagged teeth pressed against her cheek as its tongue tightened around her throat.

And then a loud report issued from behind the creature and a spray of oil-like blood brought her beck to reality.

The creature howled and tossed Lydia like she was a rag doll against the side of the museum. Her head bounced off the concrete with a loud thud and she crumpled to the flooded ground with a splash, her head spinning. She could barely make out Michael standing up and against a dumpster as he fired again. The blast lit up the alley and revealed more of the creature, its back rippling with muscles and yet not configured to any human anatomy she could recognize.

"What the fuck?" Michael screamed as he aimed for its head.

"Brother," it rasped, those bloody, pupiless eyes regarding him sadly for a moment.

"What the fuck are you?" he yelled.

"Brother," it snarled, any signs of its recognition of Michael gone as it lunged forward. Any sadness it had harbored a moment earlier was consumed in the heat of its blind rage.

Michael fired again and was knocked back as it plowed into him, tearing his overcoat off with one swipe of its hooked fingers. Michael bellowed as blood soaked his shirt, five gashes running across his torso and bleeding badly. He fully expected to see his intestines spill out all over his pants in a bloody gush. He knew his number was up, and that he would buy it in this shitty little alley. He pounded on the creature as it grasped his head, palming his skull like an NBA star would a basketball.

The creature began squeezing its grip.

Michael screamed.

Lydia leapt up, her eyes blazing with an internal blue fire as she unsheathed her dagger. With a graceful flying somersault, she plunged the steel into its back and twisted. The knife slid in like he was made of butter until it hid the hard bone beneath. She dropped to her knees as it spun around, swinging desperately. The claws tore through the rain with a wet hiss, just inches above her head.

She shoved Michael behind the dumpster and turned to face the creature she had created. It was pawing for the knife in its back, but could not reach, the mass of its muscles too big to allow such flexibility. It raged, gnashing and chomping its teeth in the air out of frustration and pain as it tried to get the dagger. Lydia leapt forward again, her claws unsheathed, going for its throat. The creature saw her and slashed out, ripping Lydia's shirt open and tearing a deep gash across her face, from her left cheek to her right temple.

Lydia landed with a thud and realized she was going to get killed along with the detective if they didn't retreat. Summoning all her strength as it turned it's attention back to the knife, Lydia grabbed the edge of the dumpster she had thrown Michael behind. She gritted her teeth and lifted, summoning all her strength and will to the task. She could feel her heart thundering as her muscles screamed and burned, pushing to the limit. Lydia growled as the steel dumpster slowly raised above her head, her fingers actually denting the surface as the lid creaked open.

With a defiant roar she heaved the dumpster at the creature.

There was a deafening bang as the steel hit the cement and cracked the surface into thousands of vein like fissures. She didn't wait to see if she had hit her mark or not. She had a distraction, and there was no time like the present to use it. She gathered up Michael in her arms, holding him as though he weighed nothing. She held him close a looked up, summoning her powers. She leapt straight up into the air and was launched into the rainy night sky..

As she flew away, she knew it was not dead.

"Lydia!" it screamed, and she felt the rage of betrayal explode from the heart of the creature, the only part of it that still had some elements of Steve left.

***

Michael woke up in his apartment, dazed and confused as he looked around, half expecting the thing from the alley towering over him to finish him off. His shirt was gone, as were the rest of his clothes. He was covered with a sheet and lying on his own bed. On the nightstand was an open first aide kit and antiseptic. His bottle of whiskey was there as well, looking really good right about now. He sat up and winced he felt the pain from the slashes across his chest and stomach.

"How the hell..." he began.

"Did you get here?" Lydia finished his question as she walked in the bedroom. Michael froze, not only because the prime suspect in two murders was here in his home, but also she was just as cut up as he was. She had a long gash across her face, but no blood, only the split skin and red meat beneath. Her shirt was torn, revealing a glimpse of her beasts and stomach as she sat down beside him.

"Where are my clothes?" he asked, "What the fuck was that thing back there?"

"Your clothes are history, you can thank the creature in the alley for that," Lydia said, not ready say it's name yet, "Before you ask, I don't know what it was."

She wondered if Michael could tell she was lying.

If he did, he gave no indication.

Michael looked at her. "How did I get here?"

"I brought you here," she replied as she threaded a needle with the bio-degradable stitching thread, "You're welcome, by the way."

Michael laid back down and looked at his clock. It was only half past eight.

"You got me back to my apartment, halfway across the city, undressed me and cleaned me up in a matter of twenty minutes."

"I'm just that good, now shut up," she said as she wiped Michaels wounds with the alcohol and prepared the needle.

"I can go the E.R. for that," Michael said, scooting away on the bed.

"You won't feel much. I gave you five shots of whiskey and," she smiled knowingly at him, in a way that made him both uncomfortable and aroused, "You had some morphine in your medicine cabinet."

Michael looked away. "So?"

"Nothing," she said casually as the needle penetrated his skin and she began sewing, "It's just that a cop could get in trouble for morphine addiction."

"I am not addicted to morphine."

"Of course not," she said, completely unconvinced.

"Who the fuck are you?" he asked, grimacing as she worked on the deepest of the cuts, right below his navel. Her hand felt warm and soothing on his skin as she sewed, and Michael tried not to stare at her breasts as they shifted from her movements.

"My name is Lydia," she said, "I work at the Art Museum. And if this last gash had been any deeper, your intestines would have been left back there in the alley."

"Who are you really?" Michael persisted. He felt her thoughts again, her emotions furiously surging through her. Despite her appearance, she was scared, more scared than even he was. There was something else there too, but he couldn't quite make it out. It seemed important enough to hide from him, but the harder he tried to see it, the more blurred it became. Or maybe he was just reading into more than was there.

Lydia remained silent as she worked, and her thoughts dwelled on Steve for a while. The shock of feeling his presence inside that body, the rage and hate that had consumed him. Just how had he transformed like that? He wasn't one of the undead, the creature in the alley had been violently emotional, and possessed of intelligence. Could he have been of a lycanthrope lineage? Maybe, but she would have been able to tell when she probed his mind. The guilt began to swell up over what she had made him into, compounding what had been there before.

She pushed it away.

'The elders are going to kill me,' she thought grimly.

She focused on Michael as she delicately sewed the wound below his navel. She was acutely aware of his cock just below her arm as she pulled the thread, partially aroused and from the looks of the bulge under the sheet, and very large. Her thoughts touched on Maricel briefly, hoping she had been smart enough to stay in the basement. She couldn't help but recall their encounter with each other again, the way she had so expertly licked and kissed her pussy and brought her to an orgasm. Maricel had eaten her out, and Lydia found she was feeling both guilty over it as well as excited. She thought of Steve and their passionate sex, the feeling of having a man's cock inside her and filling her up so completely. It had been hundreds of years prior to Steve, and the hunger he had stirred up inside her had yet to be filled to satisfaction.

Her growing attraction and curiosity about Michael as a lover was proof of that.

"Ow," he winced as she went too deep with the needle.

"Sorry," she whispered, gently pulling the separated flesh together. The smell of his blood was almost intoxicating as she tried to concentrate, and the thirst was beginning to rise inside her again. She fought it down, suppressed it. She thought of Steve, and the way she had manipulated him into giving himself to her. She may have done this to Steve, but she could not do it to Michael, his brother. She could never live with herself if she did it this way again. She told herself she would merely find some bum or drunken wife beater later to feed on.

Not Michael.

"This may sound crazy, but the last 24 hours have been right out of The Twilight Zone anyway," Michael said, " I swear I can hear your thoughts."

Lydia didn't look up, couldn't look at his eyes. "I think you're feeling loopy."

"Maybe," he said groggily, the morphine kicking in hard though his system, "But it feels so real. I can hear you thinking about Steve."

"Your brother?" she feigned ignorance.

"Yeah, and Larry Crispin and Maricel LaVoy," he said, closing his eyes as his voice became disconnected, "You know something, don't you?"

Lydia was quiet for a moment, unsure how long she could keep this up. "No," she said, "I told you I don't."

She found herself not wanting to admit her guilt to Michael, feeling ashamed and worried of what his opinion would be, scared of the hate and retribution he would cast off on her. And yet, a part of her wanted to confide in this man, to unload her crimes and be judged, held accountable. She wondered if he could possibly understand what it was to be in her position, in order to live having to kill?

She probed his mind and found that he was just as kind as his brother had been, only haunted by the horrors of his job. The murders, the crimes, the humanity lost in a world he was trying to protect. His life had been consumed by his calling, and in this way, maybe they weren't so different. But she was a killer, and he saved lives, taking only when necessary. Still, his life was governed by his strong sense of right and wrong.

He was a good man.

Lydia cursed herself for liking him. She realized she could not kill him, even to protect herself and Maricel. She had told herself she could, and the minute he had shown up in the alley she believed she could. But something unexpected had happened, maybe as a direct result of meeting Steve and Maricel, but somewhere in the darkness and guilt over her choices in the last day, she had rediscovered her humanity. And with it came the price of a conscience.

She had made her decision about this when she decided to heal his wounds rather than leave him for dead in the hands of the creature.

"Help me, " he said softly, the effects of the morphine and whiskey now plainly visible.

"Michael," she asked tenderly, feeling for the first time in so long a warm glow on the chill of her heart, "What happened to your wife?"

"She left me," he said as he put a hand to his face, trying to fight off the sedation "I don't blame her though."

Lydia finished sewing the worst of the wounds. The other four would heal fine without stitches, but they would be forever scarred across his perfect torso. She put her hand on his chest and felt his warm skin, so different from her own. It contained blood, real and hot, giving him the essence of life. Her flesh was like a porcelain dolls, beautiful but merely a covering for a hollow space, upon first touch losing its illusion of luster. She relished in his essence, letting his soul wash over her as she opened her mind to him and explored him.

He was so powerful, so moral and kind-hearted. Even now, though he suspected her in the death of his brother, he still had deep gratitude for her. He knew she had saved him, and along with it there was a strong attraction to her.

She admitted to herself the attraction was mutual as she soothed his troubled mind, easing the pain of his life in a way she could never do for herself. She discovered he had been suspended from his job a year ago for suspected morphine use as she browsed through his memories. They never proved it, but Michael lived with guilt of his secret addiction. Barbara, his wife, had left him because of that, mostly. And Michael had tried to quit. Lydia could feel his desperation as he worked to quit, to come out of his addiction and be free.

She could identify, and yet as hard as they both may have tried to shed the bonds of addiction, they fell and made poor choices.

"It must be lonely," she said as she stroked his cheek.

"It is."

"I am so sorry," she whispered. "But I know what that is like, to be alone..."

"Why do I feel like I know you?" he asked as he softly took her hand in his and held it tight, "What are you doing to me?"

Lydia felt a knot in her throat as memories of what had happened with Steve came flooding back. "I...I just wanted to help you," she said, forcing back her tears. This was becoming too much as she allowed Michael's pain inside. It was as penetrative an act as virginal intercourse, and it was accompanied by similar feelings of pleasure and pain. The overwhelming storm of his soul filled her up completely, and she gasped a little as she felt his pain. Lydia closed her eyes, hoping that maybe this could help redeem her for what she had done to Steve. She wished that through helping Michael, she might find a temporary reprieve from her sins.

Lydia seized Michael's mind and he went limp as she caressed him with her thoughts, her mind gently blowing the hurt away from him as though it were dust that had settled for too long on a glass sculpture. Michael closed his eyes, his face shocked and in the grip of some indefinable pleasure transcending any physical description or verbal understanding. Tears formed in his eyes as she addressed the loss of his brother, his wife and son. She grieved with him, her heart opening up and offering a safe haven.

Lydia removed her torn shirt and vest, unhooked her bra and tossed her clothing on the floor. She lay on her side and held him close, letting her full breasts press against his muscular arm. He was so warm, so human as she gave in to her need to be close to him. They embraced each other, their legs tangled and faces buried in each other's necks.

A mutual need passed between them as Lydia comforted his soul and reassured him as only a lover could do. In the span of the five minutes they were joined, they became intimately aware of each other, as though they had been mated for life. Michael was only aware of it at a subconscious level, and could only react to the emotions. But Lydia could see it all and she wept as Michael became a part of her.

Then came a dark cloud over them, out of the horizon of Lydia's heart like a typhoon over the ocean. The thirst was still there, and it craved new blood as it thundered and gusted. Lydia squeezed Michael hard, feeling her resolve going weak. His cock stirred against her leg and she knew that he wanted her, and the déjà vu of the situation struck her like lightning. Michael was vulnerable, defenseless here as she lay with him.