Scarlet Night (Limited Edition) (3 page)

“Sorry...” I pouted; maybe dance lessons should have been in order.

“Never waltzed before?” h
e asked.

“Does it show?” I blushed.

He smiled and pulled me in closer as he waltzed me around the dance floor, I felt like I was floating as he led me to the stage.

He stood in front of me, his dazzling smile making me feel that same warm comfort as we stood in front of the crowd. He pulled a small box out of his pocket and I held back the gasp as he dropped himself onto one knee in front of me and placed the ring on my finger.

“Serena, I love you. Will you—“

And then the room went bright.

The light overwhelmed me a moment before the sound knocked me back. The panicked survivors began to clamor out the door. I turned away from the exit to find Devon several feet away, sprawled on the floor, dazed from the chaos.

“Let’s go!” I cried out as a large, burning pillar began to collapse towards us.

Devon shot forward and shoved me off the stage as the pillar crashed down on him and pinned him to the stage. The meticulous suit that I had been admiring a moment earlier quickly took to the flames and his body was engulfed in the fire.

I heard his cries and at that moment, I realized I was sobbing.

Somewhere between clutching my eyes from the horrific scene and daring to peak at the horror, I found myself outside.

Sirens and cries filled my ears as I froze, sensing something familiar. Kristine! I felt my rage match the building’s blaze and I tore the hem of my skirt to free my legs and rushed through the crowd in overdrive.

I caught up to her quickly and slammed her against the brick building, shaking a few of the weaker bricks loose.

“You!” I growled and drove my fist into her cheek, the shattering of her jaw and her pained shrieks fueling me further. “YOU KILLED HIM!”

“You will feel his pain!” I cried out as my aura wrapped around her body and squeezed her. She screamed and tried to struggle against my hold and I laughed through my tears. “And you will feel my pain!” I cried as my aura grew.

“Serena!” Devon’s voice called to me.

My eyes widened and I spun to meet his voice, hearing Kristine hit the ground as I released my grip. I cried out, watching as my aura warped and twisted against my will and began to take his shape.

He floated forward and the same warmth engulfed me as his hand reached out and stroked my cheek. “Rage is so unbecoming to you.”

Despite everything, I felt my body calm and I dropped to my knees.

“Serena, it’ll be okay.” Devon’s ghostly figure shifted to meet me at my level. His familiar warmth filled me. “Let’s go to the cabin...”

“B-b-but...how? What happened?” I whimpered, looking up at him.

“I don’t know,” he smiled his same reassuring smile and the calming warmth rippled through me once more, “I just knew I needed to be with you.”

I sighed and shook my head pushing away the memories and turned my attention to Devon donning the mask of confidence.

“I’m starving. Let’s head to the city.” I stood up and stretched, heading towards the door of the cabin, I could already sense that we had a visitor. I looked down at the ring on my finger and sighed, before returning my attention to the door.

“What the?”

Somehow it
always
comes back to the drinking.

I thought I'd been free of it
;
thought
I'd gotten a grip of chasing the bottom of a glass only to demand a refill. I thought that I’d gotten better than I’d been since Gregori had saved me from the barstool all those years back.

But Gregori’s dead now, and there’s nothing left to distract me
from my life and what it's become.

It seems that,
after everything that’s happened, I’m no further than I’d been in the beginning after that whole mess with those fucking ink-monkeys and Raith.

Raith…

My eyes shift towards my left shoulder. As my gaze falls upon the pitch-black tendrils of the tribal pattern breeching past the sleeve of my shirt, the echo of Raith's name and his last fleeting calls roar in the still-sober part of my mind. Sneering at the phantom memories, I watch as the tattoos begin to shimmer and grow luminous like a branding iron preparing for a kiss.

It already wants to come out…

Damn!

I growl and tug my sleeve down to cover the rest of the accursed thing before slamming the shot glass on the table and giving the bartender a look that he knows all-too-well to be a call for another. He's quick to oblige, stepping away from the slutty Chinese broad he's been eyeing for the past hour
—the SAME Chinese broad that he's neglected to notice stealing glances at my ass every time I lean over the bar to snatch a fistful of peanuts from the puke-colored bowl that's now almost entirely greasy fingerprints and dust. On any other day I might've given a shit; on any other day I might've told that fat, lazy fuck behind the bar to stop watering-down his scotch long enough to wash the damn bowl and not condemn his patrons to a week of singing into their toilet bowls. On any other day I might've seen the point in being decent.

On any other day, though, I'd probably be interested in seeing the next day come.

However, on this day, all I want to do is carry off as much of the bastard's booze in my churning guts and maybe fuck the Oriental apple of his crusty, old eye in his bathroom and make damn sure he hears every second of it before strolling out with a reminder of the mess I've left for him to mop up.

And then…

Fuck.

He's barely done pouring the fresh shot before I'm bringing it to my mouth, and before he has a chance to bitch at me in his creaky German grunts I snatch the bottle from his hand and tell him to fuck off.

It's going to take a lot more rot-gut than the old Nazi's got to help me forget, and a lot more than some well used pussy to distract me from what needs to be done.

I abandon the shot glass and take a long pull from the bottle. The Chinese girl doesn't even pretend to not be impressed and I can all-but smell her flood her own panties.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck!

Fuck this night and fuck Gregori. Fuck him for saving me. Fuck him for helping me. Fuck him for making me give a shit.

And, most of all, fuck him and his death for this god-forsaken night!

Fuck…

The last of the liquor spirals down the mouth of the bottle and bleeds down my throat as easy as tap water, and the patrons of the bar—some who've been sucking down shots of whisky for
years
and can't shake their own grimace—stare with disbelief at my tolerance to the stuff as I toss the dried-up bottle back over the bar and let it smash through a display case.

“
ANOTHER!”

If the crowd hadn't been hushed before
, they certainly are now. Though nobody says a word, I can practically hear their labored minds chalking up the outburst as a heated fit from a raging drunk. After an uncomfortably long moment, their eyes move in unison to the bartender, hoping that the old fart has the balls to herd me out before I offer an encore performance. The Chinese broad's lustful gaze has been replaced by one of sheer terror as she maneuvers from her barstool and hides behind the first man—in this case, a beefed up biker type with a young beer gut peeking out from beneath a yellowed undershirt—that looks like he might fare well against me.

I can't help but laugh.

Thought they were supposed to be
good
at calculating.

Behind the bar, the old man takes a step back and slowly reaches blindly for the silent alarm. His eyes
—sickly or not—are wide and receptive, and whatever he sees in front of him is more than he's willing to try and deal with on his own without a few cops to back up his efforts.

“
Don't bother, Adolf!” I offer as I climb off my stool. “I'm done here, anyway!”

The deathly
quiet bar seems to part for me as I turn and head for the door; the patrons taking no chances and moving table and body alike to make room for their current monster to make his way out.

Fuckers don't
know
monsters!

Fuckers can't
FATHOM
monsters!

They ain't seen NOTHING yet!

Every eye—wide and ready as dinner plates—traces my methodic journey for the exit. Several paces from the door, I reach out my hand and scoop up a half-empty stein of what I hope isn't juice from the table of a small man who wasn't fast enough in his retreat and glance back at the skeptical bartender.

“
One for the road,
mein fuhrer
!” I call, raising the drink and taking a loud sip.

Molson.

Thank the gods and all their mercy for small fucking favors!

Before anybody can say anything concerning a bar serving take-out I kick open the door and welcome the night air as I step into its dark embrace.

After all is said and done, after all the trim and all the fucking and all the soaked bed sheets are but a sweat soaked memory, the mistress that is the night is the only bitch I find my way back to.

Maybe it's the silver strands of moonlight.