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Maybe the intellectual construct of fate, of destiny, was just a way to frame all the shitty fucking things that happened to people.
To a vampire, the sunlight was what you feared, never the night. Darkness was freedom, shadows were safety, clouds over the loud, bright face of the moon a stroke of luck.
The contact between them and the glow that surrounded their bodies didn’t last forever. Even though it felt like it persisted for an eternity. And when whatever process or procedure was done, the evil was gone, only the two men remaining. Except—no. These were not men, were they. They were other. They were vampire. Okay, that was fucking hot.
“You want some of this?” she murmured after a moment. “You keep staring at it like you didn’t have dinner.” It took him a minute to figure out she was talking about the snack.
Butch stared somberly at his mate. “With everything I am, and all that I will ever be, I swear, I will come back to you.”
When she stopped, she was about five feet away, and damn, her foundation was either the spackle they used at the end of Death Becomes Her or her skin was just fucking perfect.
Okaaaaaaaaaay, time to put away the melodrama. This was not a grown-up episode of My So-Called Life, with her as Angela and Syn as Jordan Catalano.
When you deeply cared for someone, you did what was best for them.
Fanning the remaining pages, he remembered that scene at the end of Beetlejuice where the father is sitting in his study, trying to get through a copy of The Living and the Dead. This thing reads like stereo instructions.
You’re worthy of love. You deserve to be respected and cherished, and to get that, you don’t need to be anything different than you are. You have been created for a reason. You’re here for a reason. You have a purpose, and you have to believe that you’ll find someone who will help you in that purpose. And until that happens? All you really need to know is that you don’t have to be validated by anybody but yourself. You are enough.”
“Where are you? And if you say not important again I’m going to punch this angel because he’s the closest thing to me.” “Not important—” Over the connection, there was a muffled OW! What the FUCK, V! “God, that was satisfying,” V murmured. “Thank you.” “You’re welcome.”
“You rang?” the fallen angel said in a pleasant tone. “No.” V punched at Butch’s pecs. “You did not text him.” “He did.” Lassiter gave the straw another suck. Then he metronomed his head back and forth, his blond and black hair swinging. “He did, he did, he did.” To the tune of Hocus Pocus’s “amuck, amuck, amuck.”
Just as V went to dematerialize, Lassiter closed his eyes and nodded like I Dream of Jeannie.
“Say it,” she demanded. “Say it!” Syn closed his eyes. “Vampire.”
The van came to a hard stop on the decline, Syphon stomping on the brake. As everybody lurched forward and caught themselves on whatever they could, guns were taken out. “What is—” “Do you see something—” “Holy fuck—” “Who has it,” Syphon snapped. As everyone “Has what’d” him, he wrenched around and glared into the back seat. “The Jolly Rancher. Who’s got the fucking Jolly Rancher?” Cue the eye contact between everybody in the van. “That fake watermelon smell triggers my gag reflex,” Syphon bit out. “And I get carsick which is why I have to drive. So if the person who’s sucking on that red
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“You make me want to be a hero, not a sinner.”
When you had a happily-ever-after, you had time. When you had true love, you had everything you needed.
