Rare Kinds

A/n: I'm really nervous about posting this chapter. D:

Chapter Seven

When the sword came down Roger jumped back and took off running. He would be damned if he was going to leave a body in the street. He had to get him somewhere a body wouldn't be noticed right away.

"Coward!" the Northman growled behind him, his armor clanking noisily as he struggled to follow which struck Roger as particularly funny.

He cut down an alley very near the church and slowed down just a little. There were open barrels with unknown rotting contents, broken boards and stones the size of sheep within in the alleyway. Glass and bent rusty nails crunched under his feet.

A precariously stacked tower of boxes (each labeled fish) caught his eye and he followed them up, distracted further by a giant hole beside them, through which he could see a study and an old man lit dimly by an oil lamp. He looked up from his book, nearly dropping it, in time to see Roger run past. Roger waved just before he tripped over the fallen city wall at the end of the alley and began to roll down the hill on the other side.

Roger was normally very graceful, but ever since they'd gotten to shore the lack of sun and cold weather seemed to zap the energy right out of him. He grabbed at the grass to slow himself but as luck would have it he slid into a tree trunk and came to a painful and abrupt stop.

He rolled over on his back and looked up at the alley from which he came. The dilapidated structure in which he had seen the old man was indeed the place. The old man was undoubtedly the priest, but it was obvious that the parish had been running low on funds for quite some time. It was in extreme disrepair. It had four walls (for the most part) but the roof was all but gone. There was a weathered beam which served as the steeple, holding up a rusted sun with the barely visible letters 'O r F her' engraved upon it.

Roger suspected if he gave one of the walls a good push the whole thing would fall over. So absorbed was he in examining the rundown church that he barely noticed the Northman catching up to him, almost laughing as he made his way down the steep hill. He looked down at Roger and grinned.

"Seriously," Roger said casually. "What happened to your face?"

His face was now twisted in anger but he said nothing in response.

Roger shrugged and leapt to his feet. He was vaguely aware of many leaves and blades of grass that must be stuck in his hair. When he looked over the Northman was less than six feet away and seemed almost foaming at the mouth.

"You're ugly when you're angry." Roger dusted himself off; finding it hard to really look at the guy directly, he took glances so he wouldn't turn to stone. "Well, you're ugly."

"Quiet!" The Northman grunted and brought sword down at Roger's face.

For fun, Roger did nothing and simply let the sword crack his head open like an egg.

For a moment everything was dark, and he could have sworn he heard some light humming. Hmm, where was that coming from? It was vaguely familiar but he couldn't place it. One moment it seemed tuneless and the next it was so clear he almost began to sing the words. Hmmm-hmm, forty thousand good soldiers, bloody something, something…. It was on the tip of his tongue! Damn, he hated it when that happened.

Then as mysteriously as it begun the humming stopped and he worked his hands up to his head, pressing the two halves together.

Just how powerful was this guy's swing? He really hadn't expected his head to be nearly halved! The pain was excruciating and his scalp and face itched like mad as they began to knit themselves back together.

Roger hadn't realized his eyes were closed until he heard the Northman speak. When he opened them the Northman was standing over him and he had no idea how long he'd been out.

"Die," he snarled and Roger felt the sword pierce his chest.

Roger screamed in pain and grabbed at the blade, trying to prevent it from fastening him to the ground. He thrashed when the Northman tried to twist the sword and threw him off to the side.

He struggled to his feet and coughed (it was supposed to be a laugh). He could taste his own blood in his mouth. It had an interesting flavor.

Roger felt a bit shaky as he regarded the shocked man who was now struggling himself, and he was a bit angry that he let him get a stab in before he could have a go.

The Northman's face was priceless. His eyes were wide, his expression horror-struck as he stared over at Roger. He backed away, flinching noticeably when Roger pulled the sword from his chest and threw it over at him.

Blood oozed slowly from Roger's chest wound, the flow slowing but not quite healed. He had lost a lot of blood. Yet another shirt had been ruined and he was pretty sure that some of his hair was quite shorter than it was before.

The Northman managed to mask his shock enough to grab and ready his sword as Roger came closer. His grip on the hilt shook.

"Don't be afraid," Roger said evenly. He pressed the palm of his left hand against his chest. He could not heal without this man's blood. "It will be over quickly."

The Northman mouth twitched, letting out a short burst of nervous laughter. Right then Roger must have seemed pretty unnatural. There were words in this savage's language for what Roger was, and they fell from the Northman's lips in light frightened whispers. His wide eyes were fixed on Roger's healed face, and it clicked inside his mind that no matter what he did he could not kill this creature.

Roger grabbed his wrist and twisted his hand and the sword away. "Be thankful I'll let you die with this in your hand."

The blood drained from his face as he backed himself into a tree. Roger pressed him against it with the length of his body and gently rolled his head to the side. The Northman seemed paralyzed but the man was built like a bear with an attitude to match. Anything could happen.

Roger tried to lose himself as he sunk his teeth into his neck and it was difficult to do so. He was distantly aware that the Northman was stabbing him over and over in the ribs. When that didn't seem to work he tried beating on him, pushing and clawing at him but Roger held fast. Then his hands went into Roger's hair, gathering it up in two desperate fists and pulling as hard as he could.

Usually the chemical in Roger's glands worked to subdue his intended prey—they'd get so excited they wouldn't be concerned with dying—but it worked only to anger this victim and the Northman fought with all his strength.

It only made it all more fun really.

Somewhere after being stabbed over a dozen times, he had decided to kill the bastard and once that decision had been made he allowed his mind to wander as he drained the neck at his teeth.

His twisted mind offered Nicholas' face in place of the gnarled Northman's but Roger tried hard to block it out. Nevertheless it was so tempting. It had happened before, he reasoned to himself, but then again that wasn't entirely true.

When he had thought of Nicholas whilst feeding at Weather Rock it seemed an innocent inquiry, more desperate than he wanted to admit to himself, but wasn't he just worrying what Maria would do to Nicholas? He didn't know and couldn't remember because what was happening at the moment was too good to really concentrate on deep thoughts.

It wouldn't be so bad if his imagination took over … even if it bit him in the ass later. He wanted to taste Nicholas in every conceivable way and now he really didn't give a shit if it answered any questions, he just wanted to do it.

Then Roger realized that at this point he was entering dangerous territory. He was starting to think that "scar face" had injured his brain a bit more than he realized.

Roger suddenly pulled away from the Northman's neck and let him slide down the trunk of the tree.

-----

Mohan groaned and shifted on the floor, his hand sliding and slipping in something wet. Something wet? He took a deep breath and tasted the air.

Mohan's eyes snapped open and he struggled to sit up. The room was dark and he began feeling around for something to help himself up. Finally he grasped the edge of the bed and pulled himself onto it. He shoved his face into the mattress as the nights' events replayed inside his head.

What was he going to do? Had he killed them both? Mohan felt like screaming. More than anything all he wanted to do at that moment was disappear. But the first thing he had to do was light a candle or something. He had to see what or who was left. He had to know what he'd done.

And Roger would be back soon.

Mohan felt around the floor for his pants but he couldn't find them. He'd had a lighter in his pocket, he was sure of it. Wasn't there an oil lamp in the room? He couldn't remember. He could light a fire but he'd need a match and he wasn't sure where his backpack was. He was pretty sure it was under the bed, but he opted out of feeling around under there. He wasn't fully prepared for what he might find.

Mohan felt so helpless; he couldn't think straight. He kept thinking about them, seeing them die over and over again in his mind. He brought his hands to his temples, wishing he could pull the memory right out of his head. Blood. He could feel it all over him—partially dry on his face and chest and there was a puddle of it underneath his feet. It wasn't a mystery where it came from.

Then he heard humming. It was kind of tuneless, as if the hummer had no idea what song it was and was feebly trying to remember by humming the first few notes over and over and then adding something he thought should go next. It sounded horrible. Mohan was sort of thankful for this as it disrupted his thoughts, until he realized it was getting closer.

Then the door flew open and someone stepped through carrying an oil lamp. Mohan crouched on the other side of the bed, partially out of view from the intruder.

"Have I wandered into a butcher shop?" Roger raised the lamp so the light shone on Mohan's face. Mohan was relieved it was Roger, but couldn't look him in the eye. "What happened to you?" He lowered the lamp and cocked an eyebrow. "Why are you naked?"

"It's a long story."

"Can it wait? Mine's better," Roger said as he shut the door behind him. He set the lamp down beside the bed and paused as something seemed to catch his attention. "It smells delicious in here." There was a dream-like quality to his voice. "There's blood everywhere!"

Mohan had never been so thankful for Roger's short attention span. He took this opportunity to find some pants but the ones he had been wearing earlier were covered in someone's blood. He pulled his backpack out from under the bed (since he could now see it) to search for a clean pair while Roger took his time sniffing around the place.

"I don't know whether to be upset with you or not," Roger said as he was probably staring at the large puddle of blood on the floor. "I've forgotten what I wanted to say…"

Once Mohan got his pants on he turned to face his friend. He wasn't really prepared to explain himself, but he was about to try nonetheless. That is until he got a good look at Roger.

"What happened to me? What happened to you?" Mohan exclaimed.

Roger looked a mess. He had dried blood and dirt in his hair (which was somehow shorter in the front) and dirt dusted and mud splattered here and there all over his body. His shirt was gone but there was still a torn cuff on his left wrist. The cuff, Mohan was sure, had once been white but now it was brownish.

"Oh yeah," Roger looked up at the ceiling, reminiscing with a fond smile on his face. "That's what I was going to tell you."

"Go on," Mohan insisted.

Anything to delay explaining himself, but as he looked at his friend's rather uncharacteristic messy exterior, he really did wanted to know, and there was a good chance that Roger fucked up worse than he did tonight.

"Some Northman with a horrible accent chopped my face in half and I killed him. But that wasn't what I was going to tell you."

"You let him chop your head in half?"

"It wasn't completely in half," Roger protested but then again he didn't seem all that sure. "Oh, I don't know."

"You don't know," Mohan said flatly, the disbelief plain on his face. He was starting to get angry but at the moment he couldn't do anything but simply stare at him. "What's wrong with you?"

"You should have seen his face though."

"You did it for the look on his face?" Mohan was very close to shouting at this point. He was across the room in an instant and knocked Roger on the side of the head with his fist. "Did you lose bits of your brain out there? What made you think that letting him hit you in the face with a sword was a good idea?"

"Don't yell at me. You're also covered in blood. When's it my turn to yell at you?"

Roger grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm away from him. Mohan tried to free himself but he wasn't as strong as his other self. This only mad him angrier.

"You don't get a turn! What's wrong with you? You are deliberately trying to kill yourself."

"I can't die."

"You're just going to put yourself in harm's way until you do." "Doesn't it hurt?"

Roger nodded. "Badly."

"So the only appeal is the look on their face."

"No, it just makes things more exciting. The same thing over and over gets stale after a while. I've had forever to note that."

"Point taken even if it was ridiculously stupid of you."

"What happened to you? Why were you naked?"

"I …" Mohan was thrown off by the change in subject. He had been content with the distraction and really hadn't had time to come up with anything plausible. He didn't remember taking off his clothes. "I don't know."

Roger looked around the room; it was as if he was seeing it for the first time. There was blood smeared all over the floor and sprays of it across the windows and ceiling. There was a pile of soaked clothing in the corner and Mohan was slicked with it. He had pieces of flesh under his fingernails.

Roger swallowed and closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath. Mohan once again found himself unable to look his friend in the face. Unaware of why, he bent down and picked up a hand he had noticed on the floor and turned it over nervously in his hands.

"You need to clean up in here," Roger said after a moment.

"I need to clean up?"

"Yes. This is your mess. Your delicious mess. Or maybe you think that it'd be all right if the inn keeper were to find this when we leave?"

Mohan shrugged, his eyes clouding over. "The sign said no questions asked."

"I think you made that up." Roger opened his eyes and stared down at Mohan, noticing what he held in his hands. "Is that a hand?"

"Yes. I killed someone in here," Mohan said numbly, staring down at the hand.

"Really?"

Mohan faked a laugh and let the hand fall to the floor. He grabbed the grey sheet off the bed and rubbed at his face with it, but the thoughts were still there. The blood would wash away but that thing would still be there, deep inside him. How long would it be before it would overpower him again? How long before it hurt someone he cared about? What if the Master were to find out about what happened tonight? He shuddered to think what would happen to him.

Why couldn't he control it like he did before? It had grown so strong and it just rose out of him, tossing his consciousness aside like a rag doll. The urge to scream rose in him again and he forced himself to swallow it.

There were more important things, weren't there? They had a job to do. Some church to find. Some guy to kidnap.

Meanwhile they were both fucking up big time.

Mohan suddenly stopped cleaning his face and looked up at Roger, who was being uncharacteristically quiet. Roger, for once, looked concerned but it only irritated him to see it. He became more irritated the more he looked at Roger.

What really set him off was that here was all this blood, delicious as Roger had called it, and Roger hadn't tried to sneak any of it. Mohan expected to see Roger dipping his fingers in out of the corner of his eye—it wouldn't have been unusual—but Roger was in control. Roger was in control and he wasn't. Never had he wanted to hurt Roger more as that realization hit him.

"You fed off him," Mohan said, speaking of the man Roger said chopped his face in half.

"I had to kill him anyway."

"You had to?" He couldn't keep the edge from his voice. Mohan backed away a bit; he was too tempted.

"You killed one. Or two. There's lots of blood in here."

"He was …" Mohan looked in his direction but was now lost in his thoughts. He had suddenly lost all energy to be angry. Fear gripped his chest as he saw their faces in his mind. "Actually there were two in here."

Roger smiled and clapped him on the back. "Well done!"

"This is serious, Roger!" Mohan turned away from him. He couldn't think! Had he taken them both? If he had, why would there be a hand on the floor? One of them had gotten away. One of them had seen the creature and lived. "I think one is still alive."

They both looked briefly over at the hand on the floor and then looked at each other.

Roger suddenly became very serious. He gently guided Mohan to the bed and bade him to sit.

"Don't move. I'll be back with water."

"And alcohol," Mohan whispered. His throat was suddenly very dry.

"Yes, obviously," Roger said and before he was completely out of the door, "And then you'll want to hear the rest of my story. Trust me. It's important."

--------

Nick hugged his knees in the corner of his cell.

He had studied every crack in the concrete walls surrounding him. There was a spray of them on the back wall that resembled a giant tree, and with the dirt floor, he could imagine its roots digging into the earth. They spiraled down while the branches stretched out to the ceiling, and sometimes, when he stared at it long enough, beyond. It would reach out with long, woody fingers filled with brightly colored leaves to encompass the entire room.

He spent the last couple of hours staring at this, counting the cracks in the concrete that made the tree and its leaves, angry and scared out of his mind, and unable to do anything about it.

So Lent and his friends, whoever they were, were waiting for his drugs to wear off. The drugs that kept him from feeling a breeze from an invisible wind, from smelling salt and sand from a beach that only he could see. They kept the child away; the one thing he couldn't get out of his head. It was a partially remembered image, the boy naked, lifting himself off the floor with blood, not his own, dripping from his mouth. He couldn't make heads or tails of it and he never, ever told anyone about the boy. And this above anything, Nick decided, or had decided a long time ago, must be kept at bay.

Without the drugs he was no longer Nick but another creature altogether too aware of the thin barriers that separated the true reality from all the different variants. It was the only medicine to cure him from seeing the ones that wanted something from him, the memories that called to him, and the vision of bubbling swamp water that was currently on the floor at the center of the cell. The prescription was what kept these things from warping his thin veil of sanity, and as he thought about this, a cold sweat broke out all over his body.

He blinked and found himself across the room, staring at the cell door. Nick scrambled back from it, disoriented. How had he done that? He hadn't been off his prescription for long, could he already be hallucinating? Impossible. It had only been a handful of hours since the shop, although he had no idea how he got here or where he was.

Nick turned around and looked back at the corner where he had been sitting only a moment ago. This had happened before, he thought, but he had just ignored it. He had been too worried about the girl with the crossbow, and then there had been Lent, which in hindsight he probably shouldn't have tried to save. Truthfully he did seem like a nice person until Nick found himself in this cell with Lent's voice playing God in the ceiling.

Nick looked up, beyond the light was only darkness, the only thing he could discern was the tree, now shedding its leaves, its branches twisting slowly with creaky wooden sounds.

Where was Lent anyway? Nick frowned at the ceiling, squinting his eyes into the light. Probably up there laughing his ass off and that girl is probably up there with him, pulling impossibly large items out of her bag with which to torture him. Well, fancy, Nick sighed resignedly and returned to his spot in the corner. Maybe he'd go completely crazy by then and wouldn't care to know where he was and what was happening to him, but the way his luck was running of late, that might not be a possibility.

Just when Nick was about to count the cracks in the wall again, the large metal door creaked open and Lent shuffled inside. His shirt was open, fresh bandages on his shoulder visible and his arm was in a sling. He cracked a smile that Nick didn't return.

"I brought you something to help you along."

Nick rolled the back of his head against the wall, straining to look up at him. The light shone behind his head, making him look deceptively holy. Nick raised his hand to shield his eyes.

"Is it my prescription?" he asked.

"No, but after this hopefully you won't feel you need those prescriptions anymore." Lent was holding a glass bottle, much like the ones Nick had seen in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom of the book shop. "Pills or whatever they are. You don't need them."

Nick narrowed his eyes. This guy had no idea what he was talking about. He glanced at the bottle and shook his head.

"Nicholas," Lent began in a sympathetic voice. "You've got to trust me."

Nick snorted. "You're serious, that's what's so sad."

Lent turned and nodded into the shadowy void that was beyond the large metal door of the cell. The door closed with a slow, creaky metallic sound that made Nick cringe. Lent leaned sat himself beside Nick and set the bottle down in front of him.

"This is an odd situation for both of us," Lent said, drawing in the dirt with his fingers. "It's not every day I get shot with a crossbow."

"Not my fault."

"No, I know," Lent laughed, "That was Maria."

"She's a nice girl," Nick said flatly.

"No, she's not, but you have to admit what you did was pretty amazing. You just appeared out of nowhere." Nick's heart almost stopped. So he really had just blinked and appeared in front of the shop? How could that be possible? "She was frightened, and she was only following the tenets."

"Wait, what?"

"'When in doubt, kill it.' I think it's number five."

"No," Nick said, digging his fingers into the dirt floor. "I appeared out of nowhere?"

Lent nodded. "The lamps went outside the shop, and when I looked up there you were across the street. You just appeared. One moment the street was deserted. The whole block was out except the shop. You showed up out of nowhere."

"That's not possible," Nick whispered.

He stared at Lent, his eyes refusing to blink. He knew it was true but he was waiting for any sign that Lent was having him on. Lent stared back.

"I saw it."

"Then why aren't you afraid of me?"

"Because I know you."

Those words made him look away. Saying that was insulting; there wasn't anyone who really knew him.

"You've read my files but you don't know me."

"I know that you have incredible power and you don't know how to control yourself—"

"Bullshit!" Nick raised his hands to his head; it felt like his entire skull was suddenly throbbing. "Let me out of here!"

"—you don't know what you are—"

"I can't take this anymore!" Nick shouted, still clutching at his head with both hands, the pain was spreading down the back of his head. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to hide his face in his knees.

"Shut up and listen to me!" Lent grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him a little. Nick's hands fell to his sides. "You need help. I can provide that, but you have to trust me."

Nick's wide eyes studied Lent's face for a moment, and then watched as he picked up the bottle and once again offered it to Nick. When he hesitated Lent pressed the bottle into his hand.

"Drink."

Nick curled his fingers around the bottle. He looked down at it and was tempted to smash it, but it wasn't as if his prescription worked that well anyway. He was always seeing something that shouldn't have been there, but it did keep the worst of it away and that was the important thing.

He narrowed his eyes down at the bottle. He did not want to do this.

He looked up at Lent and wondered what his agenda was. What was the point of keeping him here and getting the drugs out of his system? All Nick had ever wanted was to be normal, and now it really seemed as if Lent and whoever was behind him—that girl and Roger, maybe, he didn't know—were trying to take what made him as close to it as he could get.

Nick wanted to go home but he had been shouting that for however many hours he had been in the cell and no dice.

"If I drink this will you let me out of here?"

"It's got to work first."

"I'm going to regret this," Nick said as he uncorked the bottle.

"Probably," Lent whispered, and he didn't look happy about it.

At least there was something, Nick thought as he drank it down, because it was too late now.

It was surprisingly tasty. It had a pleasing tangy sweetness that shortly after swallowing left his face tingling. He immediately wanted more for some reason and checked the bottle. It was empty, Nick observed with a frown.

"Thank you," Lent said and took the bottle from Nick's limp fingers. "How do you feel?"

"Fine thanks," Nick slurred. He felt like he was speaking in slow motion. His whole body felt extremely heavy but in an incredible way. "How're you?"

"Er," Lent began and checked a pocket watch. "That was quick. Listen, don't try to move or anything."

"Couldn't if I wanted to." Nick felt like smiling so he did. Smiling was fun he decided and kept doing it. "You've drugged me," he accused and tried to point at Lent but his arm flailed wildly and he hit himself in the face.

"Don't move, Nicholas."

"Sorry."

Lent laughed as he reached out and touched his shirt. "You've still got my blood on you."

"Disgusting," Nick nodded. He was agreeing to something but he wasn't sure what. Oh yes, the shirt, he thought and looked down. It was crusty and gross with dried blood.

"Yes, your shirt," Lent said. "Sorry, this potion doesn't really allow an inner monologue." He smiled and sat back, leaning against the wall next to him. "Usually you sleep and then it's all over but I added something special so I could ask you a few things. Don't worry about it."

"No problem."

It was getting increasingly difficult for Nick to understand what he was saying. He kept staring at Lent's ears. How was it that they were so pointy? And his eyes, Nick shivered, they scared the shit out of him.

"I'm Tangarian."

"A what again? I thought you were a black guy. You know, just weird looking. Like a Vulcan with creepy eyes."

"Tangarian. We're dark elves," Lent said. "Explains the ears and the creepy eyes."

"They are creepy."

"I've been told."

"Sorry."

"It's fine." Lent paused. "What's a Vulcan?"

"What's an elf? Wait. Like a Christmas elf?"

"I don't know what that is."

"Oh," Nick said, furrowing his brow in confusion. There was something he wasn't getting here, but Lent didn't offer anything else. "You'd be smaller if you were anyway."

Lent seemed to ignore that final comment.

"What are you?" Nick laughed. Had this been what he was building up toward? "What's funny?" Lent asked, unable to keep a smile from his face.

"Roger asked me that," Nick said, unable to stop himself from slumping over. Lent took pity on him, and he reached over and pushed him back into place. "Thanks."

"What did you tell him?"

"I said, what does that mean?"

"That doesn't help."

"No. It does not," Nick agreed.

Lent looked so dejected that Nick wished he had something to say that would help but he wasn't really sure what Lent was looking for.

From what he had observed, Nick didn't think a lot of what Roger said or did made any sense. He thought about all those times he had caught him hanging around his window, peering in on him. What had it all been for? What are you? What kind of question was that? What did it mean?

He didn't understand any of what was going on but the room hummed pleasantly around him and lulled him into a false sense of security. Whatever happened, he thought to himself, at least this moment was good.

Then Nick suddenly remembered something. "What about the paper he had?"

"What paper?" Lent immediately perked up, his gaze fastened on Nick's face.

"It was magic," Nick was so glad his question sparked interest that he let his explanation fly out of his mouth without thinking about the words he was saying. "It was telling me what to do but I beat it in the end. Was it a test? Do you have tests? If there was a test, you'd tell me, right?"

Lent sat back. He looked shocked. His sudden change in behavior was a buzz kill. Lent was still staring at him as if he'd pulled a gun out of his ass and turned it on him.

"Where's Roger?" Nick asked unexpectedly, surprising himself.

He did want some answers from him, though. After all, Roger had said he wasn't dangerous, but his friends had nearly got him killed and they'd managed to lock him up for unspecified reasons. Someone had to tell him what was going on.

"He'll be back," Lent said and got up slowly, wincing, presumably from the wound in his shoulder. "I hope," he added as a whispered aside that Nick was sure he wasn't supposed to hear.

Lent really did look troubled, and as he made his way to the door, Nick was briefly concerned by what he might have said to upset him. What had he said? He couldn't remember. Already the details of the conversation they'd just had were fading and all he wanted to do was close his eyes.

"I think we've talked enough for now. Why don't you just close your eyes and rest for a bit."

Nick whispered something, his vision already dark. His limbs were heavy and unmovable and he felt so relaxed there was no reason to argue. He was fast asleep before Lent closed the door behind himself.