Shaped by the Past (Part 1)

Accounts of Juniper, October first 2017.

"No, I didn't want him to die either," she says with conviction.

Incredibly naive, she cannot possibly cherish such blindness to the will of nature.

"So, what was your plan, then? The wolf or the sheep? The two cannot coexist. If you do not kill the wolf, it will eat the sheep."

She straightens stubbornly and persists, "I don't want anyone to die!"

"Impossible, so who lives? Wolves or Sheep?" I press as I wonder, is this willful ignorance?

She begins to flounder. I feel a wave of doubt taking hold, but she continues to fight against the reality. She bungles her words, "I feel…it's not-"

I'm too appetent, inciting furthermore, "You can't prevent death. So, tell me! What can be done? Who is stopped and who is spared?"

Ashlen bellows in frustration, "I don't know!"

She exudes a flurry of agitation. Then as her lids drift low, it calms into stark but sweet penance.

Pure truth, I have never encountered such an honest soul.

What a fragile thing, I suppose I *am* cruel. But I did not turn a lamb into a wolf. She is neither of those nor was she before the metamorphosis. She's something balancing perfectly between the two on the thin line.

"I don't think any of us truly know," I remark as I stroll onward. I sense a change in her demeanor. She appears a bit surprised by my words, while taking a small comfort in them, as well.

I will not beseech her company, my approach has been quite abrasive. She may companion me of her own volition.

Her anxieties nearly swallows me whole at each encounter, a bit taxing but her digressive actions make it tolerable.

She pursues my footsteps like a stray mongrel begging for scraps. After all the upset she chooses to be with me tonight? How interesting.

Our bond by blood should make deciphering the young woman all too simple, yet I find her curiously perplexing.

I know she fears me, that I should destroy her before that fear inspires acts against me. Quick and painless, pluck her heart from her chest like a wild rose.

I glance back. Her eyes lay on her feet, shoes boorishly scuffing the plain expanse. Her emotions waft palpably and disjointed through waves of aimless thought.

It is Ashlen's candor that shields her from extermination. A childlike innocence. What is often deemed as weakness may be her greatest asset.

Though vehement and volatile as any young blood, Ashlen is remarkably docile. Perhaps, too submissive.

I chuckle to myself, perhaps she is a lamb... with teeth.

Why did I turn such a frail, fearful dove?

This is because of what I've lost, I suppose? Her influence on me is forsooth peculiar.

I know why. She was fated to perish by violence, in a forest, on the final day of summer, as I was. The look in her eyes and the way her trembling fingers clung to my cloak, all an unfathomable coincidence. Haunting and fortuitous, how could I not indulge?

I sense her tension ease as we egress the extent of the dying man's scent. He may not make it through the night, his will to live shall determine it. I will not mention this to her, we must find supper for us both without any further distractions.

I examine my soiled overcoat, it's beyond repair.

I disrobe the garment, tearing two strips from the most intact portions and discarding the tattered remains.

"What are you doing?" Ashlen asks with an inquisitive tilt of her head.

"Washing up."

The autumn air nips at my bare shoulders as I wrap the largest exposed wound on my upper arm with one ragged strip. I pull the knot firm betwixt my thumb and teeth.

I locate a drizzling rain spout descending from a nearby rooftop by sound. I hold the other rag beneath the pipe until damp with icy water. I proceed to wipe the grit and blood from my face, neck and arms.

"Here, let me help," Ashlen offers, a hand outstretched.

"Did I miss a spot?"

"Just give me the damn cloth," she demands.

Very amusing. I eye her for a moment before passing the rag, "Very well."

She tends to me with nurturing gentle blots, not rough nor resentful as I anticipated. I expected her qualms to be conveyed in an aggressive rub, for her to push the cloth deep into the wounds that hadn't fully healed. Alas, she handles my skin as if it were a fine wine glass.

"I could have sworn you took more damage than this in that fight."

"We heal more swiftly than mortals. And apparently, I heal quicker than your average vampire. Faster still with the aid of blood."

Her brows raise, glancing into my eyes directly before returning her attention to the last few details.

"There, much better. Now you don't look like Bloody Mary."

"Queen Mary the first," I chortle, "Legends never die off, it seems."

"Yeeaah, sure," Ashlen's lips pucker as she squints in confoundment, "Your hair's still got some crud in it but it's black so it just looks wet," she gives me a once over stopping at my shoulders, "You know, people don't usually wear tank tops in September."

"It's October first now."

"Yeah, definitely not in October."

"Should I break into a shop and steal appropriate attire?"

"What! No- that's not… Whatever, no. Please don't," her face tumbles from bewilderment to impatience, "Let's just keep going."

She starts off down the walkway at a tortoise pace for me to take my lead. I hear a steady pulse thumping, pouring through the desolate rows of buildings and payment slabs. The volume of a drum rises as we edge closer, advancing steadily.

A familiar anxiety permeates the space with it's sour stench. I attempt to calm Ashlen using our preternatural link.

"All will be well, Petite. Do not fret."

"Yeah, right," she grumbles faithlessly.

The footsteps vibrate along the walk, just around the bend. Heavy footed and overly confident, entitled and even malintent. I can smell the reek of maliciousness spilling off the lone wanderer.

I feel the flames roar to life deep within my gut. I will claim this one, my beast hungers for him.

"June..?" Ashlen drawls in a suspicious tone, sensing my change.

"I have a taste for this one. We'll find you another."

Coincidence and good fortune favor us. There's another mortal off further east. His heart echoing the sugared promise of warmth through the darkened city.

Splendid, I'll have Ashlen take that one and she can feed in solitude as I know she prefers.

"There is another East, go to him. We will meet back at the head of the trail and-"

"You promised," she glumly interposes.

"Promised?" I ask with a veneer of ignorance, though she appears wise to my intentions.

"You know what promise. You're going to kill this guy. You told me you wouldn't tonight."

My kills are rarely contrived, I'm simply drawn to this one. Survival depends on him and the ferocity of my demon.

"You believe I'll murder him?"

"I know it," she claims with displeasure, "I feel that part of you. This is why I have a hard time believing anything you say."

She's so certain of it, is my need so plain to see?

"Well, I did warn you not to trust me."

Her disappointment billows in a sigh like smoke from a molten furnace and I nearly reconsider going to this one that calls out to me. Almost, but then I catch sight of the man.

His healthy heart pumps inside the cage of his broad puffed out chest. His pulse slowly accelerates upon spying us. He is precisely what I expected him to be, exactly what I crave.

He grins slightly, a grin I've seen time and time again. Hawty, sanctimonious and behind presumed charisma, a hideous barbarism.

After the escape of that wild Vanquisher woman he will be a most delightful trade-off. I desire that flavor to slake my cacoethes.

Ashlen hesitates in apprehension, taking notice of his nefarious gaze, "June, let's leave. We can find someone else. I don't like the way he's looking at us."

I keep walking unperturbed, already fastened to his pulse.

"Come with me," she implores.

I turn to her, unsurprised to see her expression twisted with inquietude, but taken aback that her concerns may be for me and not herself.

What causes her to care for me this way?

"He cannot harm me. Now go, do as I say."

She gives me a stern look, pressing her lips firmly together. Her eyes filt from the two of us before ultimately resigning, "It doesn't have to be this way," she sets east in disgruntlement, "It's not too late to change… Your mind."

"Wait, wait a second," demands the man in a sharp tone, quickening his steps.

Ashlen's eyes are huge looking back at the two of us once more. Does she fear him? Does she fear *for* him? Does she fear for me? Only one of those is sensible.

I gesture with a brush of my fingertips and whisper, "Go on, petite."

She bites harshly into her lower lip before hastening away.