Warming Up

The night was broken by the rough opening of a door, the rapid tap-a-tap of boots slamming against asphalt. The source of these noises--a slight, desperate-looking girl--ran through the pools of light from the streetlamps;

I shouldn't have followed him. Shouldn't have, shouldn't have.

Hot tears fell from her eyes, turned icy and cold in the winter air as they slid down her cheeks. The chilled wind seemed to run through her, causing her to shiver involuntarily, nearly double over as she ran.

Damon. How could you do this, how could you *leave* me here?

She saw his face swimming in front of her; auburn hair falling down his back, cat-green eyes flashing in the sun. Damon as a young boy, dancing in the woods; as a gangly teenager, smoking behind her parent's house; as the dashing, confident man he'd become by the end of high school.

Kit ran, squeezing her eyes shut, blasting through the images, trying to will them away, to stop them before they changed, before he--

--it was too late. They came unbidden, flying through her head as she paused for breath, leaning against a bicycle rack.

Damon luring her into the woods as the night began to fall, his hair ablaze in the last crimson sunbeams that snuck over the horizon. Damon's voice, saying things that made no sense, calling her a name she didn't recognize, speaking in a language that seemed oddly familiar and terrifying. Damon grabbing her wrists, holding her down, chanting. . .and then her mind going oddly blank, only re-emerging just before a long, black car pulled away and left her piled in a a hopless heap on the sidewalk.

She started walking again, slowed her pace. Her fingers self-consciously felt the silver buckles on her front, along her sides. The outfit was leather, bared everything she had to its full advantage. It wasn't the sort of thing she was used to wearing; she didn't even own anything like this. The metal that made up the delicate celtic knotwork was soft, velvety to the touch. It felt old. . .worn. Hers. The familiarity made her shiver.

Kit had no idea where she was, strictly speaking. She knew it was a city she'd never been to, that all she had were the scant clothes on her back, a coat, and the necklace that for years had never left her. She ran her hands over it, traced the circle around the cross.

The words whispered in her head; they weren't words she knew, were a whole different language, ran like music across her skin as she heard them. "Lan-awn shee." Leanan Sidhe.

Damon had said he was her brother, they'd been meant to be together. And as her body convulsed with the revelation, he'd pressed down harder, started the chanting, started to try to enter her and bring her. She felt something rising to the surface of her consciousness, to match his passion, and it terrified her. She drew up her legs, kicked at him. . .kicked him off. . .

Anger. Silence. And she'd woken up here, and alone. Untouched, but alone.

And then she'd run into him. He'd called himself--it didn't matter what he'd called himself. He'd offered warmth, believed her story about a party gone wrong, promised he'd keep her safe for the night. Kit laughed once, harshly, as she hugged herself tighter and continued down the street.

He'd succeeded; he'd been stronger than Damon, faster, and he'd. . .

The tears welled up in her eyes again, threatening to spill over. He'd broken her, and she'd opened up, lost herself, felt a power roar through her, changing her as she came. And even now--cold, ashamed, and angry--she still felt different. As though something had been ripped from her and been replaced with something dark. Grasping. Hungry.

She caught a glimpse of herself in a pane of glass, and what she saw made her gasp. Her skin was pale, almost glowing, and her eyes, once blue, sparkled in her face like wine-dark amethysts. She was different, she had changed, what was she. . .?

The more she thought about it, the more obvious the changes were. She could feel her steps, could see the music in them, as though each of her movements was part of a dance. Kit didn't believe in these things, didn't believe that someone could change into something else. But as she walked along the streets, she couldn't deny the thoughts running through her head. The night's earlier fear had been tempered by desire; the urge to fight, the urge to. . .

. . .thinking about it made her turn red, even as she imagined what they would be like, what their lips would taste like, how they would move. . .

She heard a quiet whispering, was startled to find that it was her own voice, speaking softly, without her conscious control.

". . .turn then, most gracious advocate, your eyes of mercy towards us. . ."

The prayer sprang unbidden from her lips, and she focused on it. It sharpened her mind, made the people around her less distracting. She had to find somewhere to spend the night. Had to get warm. Had to hide.

She looked up, suddenly, saw a row of high steps rising to elaborate wooden doors and a worn stone facade. A church. Kit climbed those steps, opened those doors tenatively, shouting a cautious "Hello?"

Kit sighed in relief as she realized there wasn't going to be any response. She went to one of the pews in the back, kneeling and making the sign of the cross before entering the row and curling up on the pew. It wasn't particularly warm, but it was infinitely better than outside. She breathed deep, inhaled the scent of fresh paper and incense that screamed "church."

As she drifted to sleep, exhausted and shaking, her consciousness filled with voices, her imagination shifting into overdrive. She felt as though she could hear the Mass around her, as though she was invisible, heard the priest and the congregation prepare for communion as her eyes slid shut.

Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word, and I shall be healed.